UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


THE    LAST    KNIGHT 

AND    OTHER   POEMS 


THE 

LAST    KNIGHT 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 

BY 

THEODORE  MAYNARD 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,   1920,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

All  rights  reserved 


ERRATA 

Page  12.     Stanza  I :  For  "their"  read  "his" ;  for 

"shields"  read  "shield" ;  for  "seals" 

read  "sealed" 
Page  13.     Stanza     2:      For     "pondage"     read 

"frondage";     for  "frondage"  read 

"bondage" 

Page  21.  Line  n  :  For  "sweeter"  read  "sweet" 
Page  28.  Stanza  2  :  For  "sweeter"  read  "sweet" 
Page  82.  Stanza  4:  For  "woodlands  notes" 

read  "woodland  vales" 
Page  98.     Line  5 :   For  "his"  read  "His" 
Page   122.  Footnote:     For    "Symposiom"    read 

"Symposium" 

Page   134.  Stanza  2  :  For  "O"  read  "Oh" 
Page  139.  Line  i :   For  "Great  joy  in  his"  read 

"Great  joy  is  his" 


4G2G48 


TO 

MY  MOTHER 

To  you  I  owe 

The  blood  of  a  Gael, 
The  laughter  I  wear 

As  a  coat  of  mail. 

To  you  I  owe 
My  gift  of  scorn, 

That  I  took  from  you 
On  the  day  I  was  born. 

To  you  I  owe 

My  strength  of  belief — 
<:          Though  the  credo  I  utter 

Has  brought  you  grief. 

QC. 

Ll  I 

To  you  I  owe 

My  songs,  each  one; 
For  you  hushed  with  music 

Your  little  son. 


402G48 


These  poems  were  first  published  by  the  follow- 
ing journals,  and  are  now  reprinted  by  the  courtesy 
of  their  respective  editors : 

In  England:  The  New  Witness,  The  New  Age, 
The  Month,  The  English  Review,  The  Sunday  Times, 
The  Poetry  Review,  Today,  Studies,  Fision,  Black- 
friar's,  The  Englishman,  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry, 
1919. 

In  the  United  States :  The  North  American  Re- 
view, The  Catholic  World,  America,  The  Lyric, 
Harper's  Magazine,  The  Rosary  Magazine,  The 
Outlook,  A  Miscellany  of  Poetry,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

PART     I  PAGE 

LAUS  DEO 3 

THE  LAST  KNIGHT 6 

THE  SCIMITAR 9 

THE  SWORD 10 

ST.  GEORGE 13 

NIGHT 16 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DAWN 18 

SUN 21 

SUMMER  RAIN 23 

EARTH'S  GREEN  WAYS .  25 

LEGEND 26 

VAGABONDAGE 30 

ENCHANTMENT 33 

SUNDAY  MORNING  AT  MARLOW 35 

HIGHWAYMAN'S  SONG 37 

THE  HEAVENLY  TAVERN 38 

A  SONG  OF  DRUNKEN  WEATHER 40 

RAHAB 42 

O  FELIX  CULPA! 44 

CHIVALRY 46 

PART  II 

AUBADE 49 

THE  LOVER'S  SILENCE 50 

SECRETS 51 

DESIDERAVI    .                 52 

IF  EVER  You  COME  TO  DIE 53 

DIRGE 55 

REMEMBRANCE 57 

CONQUERORS 58 

HOLIDAY 59 

[vii] 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

UNUTTERED 61 

MARRIAGE 63 

DIVORCE 65 

FOR  M.  F.  A.  M 67 

MICHAELMAS  DAY 68 

PART  III 

SONNETS  FROM  AN  UNFINISHED  SEQUENCE  .     .  73 

PART  IV 

ANNUNCIATION 81 

SIMPLICITY 84 

MEEKNESS 86 

PATIENCE 88 

TEMPERANCE 90 

CHASTITY 91 

THE  MANICHEE 93 

THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD 101 

BALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS-NIGHT 103 

PARTY 

To  THE  EASTER  DEAD  (1918) 109 

To  FRANCE no 

THE  PARADOX  OF  VICTORY in 

THE  LAST  CRUSADE 113 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD 115 

THE  NEW  WORLD 117 

PART  VI 

Six  EPITAPHS 121 

PART  VII 
AN  INSCRIPTION  WRITTEN  WITH  A  NEW  FOUNTAIN 

PEN   USED   FOR  THE    FlRST   TlME        ....  129 

THE  DENIAL 130 

A  FISHERMAN'S  STORY 131 

BALLADE  OF  BEELZEBUB 132 

BALLADE  OF  A  LOST  ROAD 134 

BEAUTY  BENEAFH  WHOSE  HAND 136 

EPILOGUE 138 

[viii] 


THE   LAST   KNIGHT 

AND  OTHER  POEMS 


PART  I 


LAUS  DEO1 

PRAISE !  that  when  thick  night  circled  over  me 
In  chaos  ere  my  time  or  world  began, 
Thy  finger  shaped  my  body  cunningly, 

Thy  thought  conceived  me  ere  I  was  a  man  I 
Thy  Spirit  breathed  upon  me  in  the  dark 

Wherein  I  strangely  grew, 
Bestowing  glowing  powers  to  the  spark 
The  mouth  of  heaven  blew! 

Praise !  that  a  babe  I  leapt  upon  the  world 

Spread  at  my  feet  in  its  magnificence, 
With  trees  as  giants,  flowers  as  flags  unfurled, 

And  rains  as  diamonds  in  their  excellence  I 
Praise !  for  the  solemn  splendour  of  surprise 

That  came  with  breaking  day; 
For  all  the  ranks  of  stars  that  met  my  eyes 

When  sunset  burned  away ! 

Praise!  that  there  burst  on  my  unfolding  heart 
The  coloured  radiance  of  leafy  June, 

With  choirs  of  song-birds  perfected  in  art, 
And  nightingales  beneath  the  summer  moon- — 

Praise !  that  this  beauty,  an  unravished  bride 
Doth  hold  her  lover  still; 

[3] 


LA  US  DEO! 

Doth  hide  and  beckon,  laugh  at  me,  and  hide 
Upon  each  grassy  hill. 

Praise!  that  I  know  the  dear  capricious  sky 

In  every  infinitely  varied  mood, — 
Yet  under  her  maternal  wings  can  lie 

The  smallest  chick  among  her  countless  brood ! 
Praise !  that  I  hear  the  strong  winds  wildly  race 

Their  chariots  on  the  sea, 
But  feel  them  lift  my  hair  and  stroke  my  face 

Softly  and  tenderly ! 

Praise !  for  the  joy  and  gladness  Thou  didst  send 

When  I  have  sat  in  gracious  fellowship 
In  twilight  for  an  evening  with  a  friend, 

When  wine  and  magic  entered  at  the  lip ! 
For  laughter  which  the  fates  can  overthrow 

Thy  mercy  doth  accord — 
To  Thee,  who  didst  my  godlike  joy  bestow, 

I  lift  my  glass,  O  Lord  I 

Praise  I  that  a  lady  leaning  from  her  height, 

A  lady  pitiful,  a  tender  maid, 
A  queen  majestical  unto  my  sight, 

Spoke  words  of  love  to  me,  and  sweetly  laid 

[4] 


LA  US  DEO  I 

Her  hand  within  my  own  unworthy  hand! 

(Rise,  soul,  to  greet  thy  guest, 
Mysterious  love,  whom  none  shall  understand, 

Though  love  be  all  confessed!) 

Praise !  that  upon  my  bent  and  bleeding  back 

Was  stretched  some  share  of  Thy  redeeming 

cross, 
Some  poverty  as  largess  for  my  lack, 

Some  loss  that  shall  prevent  my  utter  loss  I 
Praise !  that  thou  gavest  me  to  keep  joy  sweet 

The  sanguine  salt  of  pain ! 
Praise !  for  the  weariness  of  questing  feet 

That  else  might  quest  in  vain ! 


[5] 


THE  LAST  KNIGHT 

I  ride,  I  ride,  with  my  memories  of  Avalon, 
The  last  of  the  hundred  knights  that  were  my 

peers, 
With  the  jesting  and  the  jousting  and  the  glory  of 

the  tournaments, 
The  laughter  of  the  ladies  ringing  in  my  ears. 

But  I  have  made  an  end  of  all  my  challenges  ; 

The  gallant  days  have  gone  beyond  recall — 
Although  I  ride  through  the  furthest  bounds  of 
Heathenesse, 

Silence  and  the  sleep  of  death  enwrap  them  all. 

Why  should  they  stir,  when  all  the  lords  of  Chris- 
tendom, 

Save  I,  are  sealed  beneath  the  heavy  stone? 
Why  should  they  shout  from  the  turrets  of  their 

citadels 
At  one  old  fool  who  rides  the  world  alone? 

Better,  by  God,  were  their  ancient  hate  and  arro- 
gance— 

Our  churches  wrecked,  and  our  fruitful  fields 
laid  bare; 

[6] 


THE  LAST  KNIGHT 

The  ambush  and  the  sortie  and  the  charges  of  our 

chivalry, 

The  clangour  of  the  battlefields  that  filled  the 
air! 

But  now  they  have  conquered.    In  a  cold  and  cruel 

quietness 
They  hold  their  peace  with  a  scorn  too  deep 

for  scorn ! 

I  ride  and  I  ride — but  this  dotard  of  a  paladin 
Can  bring  no  answer  to  his  angry  horn. 

Could  I  find  a  man  with  belief  enough  for  bias* 

phemy, 
I  would  love  him  well  for  his  hatred  of  my 

creed. 

But  the  minds  of  men  are  rotted  with  their  toler- 
ance, 
And  doubt  eats  their  wills  like  a  hungry  weed ! 

I  ride,  I  ride — for  until  a  paynim  fight  with  me, 
My  weary  bones  shall  never  find  their  grave. 
Though  rest  be  sweet  I  can  never  have  a  resting- 
place 

Until  my  sword  is  red  with  a  stroke  it  gave. 
[7] 


THE  LAST  KNIGHT 

Perhaps  I  shall  find  it — as  a  man  finds  fairyland — 
And  see  it  glimmering  at  the  fall  of  eve, 

Perhaps  a  paynim  knight  will  answer  to  my  chal- 
lenging, 
And  men  will  die  for  the  lie  that  they  believe. 

That  would  be  something!   For  if  I  could  but  see 

again 
A  faith,  though  false, — then  the  true  would 

surely  thrive, 
And  doubt  give  way  to  dogma,  and  truth  come  to 

be  again 
Passionate  and  lovely  in  a  soul  alive ! 


[8] 


THE  SCIMITAR 

THIS  is  a  scimitar 
By  a  magician  made, 
Wrought  in  a  cavern  underground: 
Upon  its  glistening  blade 
Are  graven  the  praise  of  Mahound 
And  the  ninety-nine  names  of  God; 
Set  in  the  handle  of  jade 
Trembles  a  blood-red  star—- 
Who gazes  that  jewel  in 
Grows  mightier  far  than  sin, 
For  the  jewel's  holding  gives 
Lordship  of  earth  and  air; 
And  the  monstrous  genii  come, 
At  the  Caliph's  clap  or  nod, 
To  bring  him  a  houri  fair 
To  add  to  his  thousand  wives. 

But  more — if  his  pleasure  tires, 
Black  eunuchs,  fearful  and  dumb, 
Must  whip  their  bow-strings  out 
To  wind  round  that  slender  throat, 
Which  the  Caliph  no  longer  desires. 
They  shall  press  out  its  silver  note 
And  tie  her  white  body  about 

[9] 


THE  SCIMITAR 

With  smooth  and  silken  cords — 
For  this,  for  this  was  the  sword's 
Secret  fashioning  underground, 
For  this  the  praise  of  Mahound 
And  the  ninety-nine  names  of  God- 
To  give  to  the  Caliph's  nod 
Such  marvellous  potency 
Through  that  jewel  of  destiny. 


[10] 


THE  SWORD 

TO  that  dear  garden,  shut  since  Adam  fell, 
Grown  o'er  with  moss  and  fern  and  ivied 

tree, 
No  man  shall  dare  to  pass  the  sentinel 

Who  bears  the  sword  of  God's  dread  chivalry. 

Within  those  forests  crazy  and  decayed 

No  panther  tracks  her^game  or  rears  her  young; 

No  bird  from  Paradise  has  ever  strayed 
To  build  its  nest  the  blessed  boughs  among. 

A  fountain  of  pure  silence,  dead  as  stone, 
Fixed  in  its  leap  and  frozen  in  cascade, 

Stands  in  the  centre — since  a  man  alone 
Lost  his  young  innocence  and  grew  afraid. 

Wings  there  no  longer  rustle  in  the  brake ; 

Save  tangled  weeds  there  grow  no  living  things : 
Since  Eve  learned  good  and  evil  from  the  snake 

Above  the  roof  of  heaven  a  sword  still  swings. 

Yet  some  have  cut  a  path  through  bush  and  brier, 
And  blown  a  horn  in  challenge  at  the  gate — 

Only  to  see  as  end  of  their  desire, 

A  sword  made  sharp,  a  garden  desolate. 


THE  SWORD 

Weary  their  woes  through  many  questing  years, 
While  red  rust  ate  their  armour  and  their 
shields — 

Only  to  find  the  grass  as  tall  as  spears 

And  that  archangel  who,  in  guarding,  seals. 

This  much  is  given  such  an  one  to  hold, 
Though  he  be  frustrate  and  denied  the  grace 

To  cross  the  door — a  sword  made  bright  and  cold, 
And  anger  blazing  strongly  on  his  face. 

This  shall  he  keep  as  comfort  from  his  Lord, 
Who  seeing  Eden  could  not  enter  in, 

The  accolade  from  His  indignant  sword, 
The  spurs,  the  crest,  the  name  of  Paladin! 


[12] 


H 


ST.  GEORGE 

'E  reins  his  horse  and  listens.    The  risen  lark 
sings  over 

The  edge  of  a  cloud  in  a  sky  washed  clean 
with  dew. 
This  is  the  England  he  knew  of  springing  grass 

and  clover, 
This  is  the  England  he  knew. 

Earth  makes  her  familiar  gesture.    The  trees  into 

pondage 
Foam  like  frozen  fountains  released,  but  spill 

no  green. 
Blue-bells  from  ancient  roots,  oblivious  of  recent 

frondage 
Are  crowding  the  trees  between. 

He  sits  stock-still  in  his  saddle.    Holding  his  spear 

he  listens, 
Hearing  in  happy  silence  the  lyric  of  a  bird. 

The  early  morning  sun  on  a  million  dew-points 

glistens  .  .  . 
The  Knight  has  not  spoken  or  stirred. 

[13] 


ST.  GEORGE 

For  here  contentment  holds  him  within  her  quiet 

places : 
All  else  he  shall  find  will  be  evil,  but  here  is 

good; 
Hearts  that  are  cold  he  shall  findt  and  cruel  or 

sullen  faces, 
Far  away  from  the  leafy  wood. 

Whinnies  his  horse  to  be  gone ;  but  the  knight  re- 
luctant lingers 

Where  thin  mist  faintly  rises,  where  no  factory- 
shafts  appear. 
His  love  clings  close  to  ground;  but  his  lips  grow 

tight  and  his  fingers 
Grow  tighter  around  his  spear. 

When  so  much  else  had  changed  had  these  not 

remained  unchanging 
The  secret  streams,  the  greenwood,  each  little 

irregular  field, 
With  memories  of  Robin  Hood  and  the  Lincoln 

Jackets  ranging — 
He  had  cast  aside  his  shield. 

Though  the  rich  have  taken  bribes,  and  the  poor 
have  followed  blindly 

E'4) 


ST.  GEORGE 

The  bidding  of  alien  lords,  and  are  minding 

their  engines'  wheels; 
Though  colour  slowly  fades  from  their  lives — 

their  lives  are  kindly, 
Despite  the  chains  at  their  heels. 

"Were    it   not   so,"    thought   the   knight,    "The 

myriad-headed  dragon 
Should  eat  this  England  up,  while  I  held  my 

angry  hand. 
But,  by  God,  I  hope  for  better  things,  for  farm 

and  fair  and  flagon — 
And  a  sword  to  save  this  land!" 

He  reins  his  horse  and  listens.     The  risen  lark 

sings  over 
The  edge  of  a  cloud  in  a  sky  washed  clean  with 

dew. 
This  is  the  England  he  knew  of  springing  grass 

and  clover, 
This  is  the  England  he  knew. 


[•si 


NIGHT 

(i) 

BEFORE  the  onslaught  of  the  night  the  day, 
Desperately  guarding  his  last  stronghold, 

died 
Among  the  flaming  hills,  where  ray  on  ray 

Flickered  and  fell  like  Lucifer  in  pride. 
Then  silent  clamour  filled  the  heights  of  heaven 
With  shouts  of  colour  the  eyes  can  see,  and 

cheers 
Of  painted  music,  as  the  planets  seven 

Bore  down  the  failing  twilight  with  their  spears. 

And  while  the  winds  made  mournful  requiem 

Over  that  battlefield  heroical, 
Chaunting  slain  captains  and  the  deeds  of  them — 

The  night  rode  by  upon  the  moon  with  all 
The  armies  of  the  stars  in  slow  procession, 

Taking  the  earth  and  skies  for  her  possession. 


[16] 


NIGHT 

(B) 

NOT  always  with  such  pomp  does  night  de- 
scend 
Winged    powerfully   with    gold    and    crimson 

clouds ; 
But  when  day  makes  her  treasonable  end 

Leads  on,  not  stars,  but  evil  shapes  in  crowds. 
Hobgoblins,  witches,  ghosts  beneath  the  cover 

Of  this  wide  leaden  dome  contrive  their  charms 
To  spoil  the  blessed  dreams  of  each  sweet  lover 
Asleep  with  his  sweet  lover  in  his  arms. 

The  wicked  night  her  invitation  utters 
To  lost  souls  for  abominable  carouse; 

A  wet  and  wailing  wind  between  the  shutters, 
Beneath   the   door   and  through   the   keyhole 
blows; 

Hands  pull  the  curtains;  and  the  candle  gutters; 
And  children  scream  for  terror  in  the  house. 


[•7] 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DAWN 

AWAKEN  I  cast  away  the  smell  of  sleep 
Out  of  your  nostrils !     To  the  narrow  room 
Shuttered  by  death,  let  in  the  wide 
Bright  sunlight  from  the  deep 

Where  Dawn  is  waiting  lovely  as  a  bride ! 
Rise  up,  rise  up  my  soul,  and  go  to  meet 
The  shy  and  lingering  hurry  of  her  feet, 

Moving  to  greet  the  longing  of  her  groom ! 

Awaken  to  that  wonder  and  your  joy  I 

The  cerements  that  bound  your  mind  are  gone, 

Melted  before  the  rising  light. 
Now  mightily  employ 

Your  powers  to  their  exultant  task;  gird  on 
The  shining  sword  of  your  great  ecstasy, 
Before  whose  edge  the  legioned  glooms  must  be 
Turned  utterly  to  swift  precipitous  flight. 

Thus  shall  you  win  your  wedding  with  your  fair — 
Bring  garlands  from  the  woods,  and  sweetly  fill 

Your  hair  with  yellow  flowers,  array 
Your  body  and  prepare 

Its  pomp  with  care  for  this  its  nuptial  day — 
For  heralded  with  bells  Dawn  comes  to  you, 
[18] 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DAWN 

Leading  along  her  merry  retinue 

Laughing  and  dancing  with  her  down  the  hill. 

Upon  the  grassy  slopes  beneath  the  sky 

Your  hands  shall  build  your  rosy  marriage  bed; 

The  young  sun  from  the  rim  of  heaven 
Shall  bless  you  as  you  lie 

Gilded  with  glory  while  your  love  is  given. 
Pluck  tenderly  and  freely  of  delight 
In  this  surrender,  while  no  folds  of  night 

Hang,  specked  with  gold,  a  canopy  o'erhead. 

But  press  your  wooing  ardently  and  soon, 

While  still  on  leaf  and  petal  shines  the  dew, 

While  love  is  coy  and  magical; 
Tween  daybreak  and  the  noon 

Few  are  the  joyous  moments  that  will  fall 
Apt  for  the  capture  of  the  virgin  heart 
Of  Dawn,  who  growing  old,  must  then  depart 
And  wrench  your  rapture  utterly  from  you. 

A  fleeting  splendour !    How  should  there  endure 
A  prolongation  of  your  burning  zest? 

But  turn  and  seize  love  while  it  last; 
When  Time's  so  insecure, 
[19] 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  DAWN 

Then  ravish  the  instant  ere  that  it  be  passed! 
The  noonday  lifts  herself  above  the  world — 
Let  limbs  cling  closer,  soon  to  be  uncurled — 
Kiss,  while  you  may,  her  lips  and  hair  and 
breast  1 


[20] 


SUN 

OlLEEPER  in  primal  darkness,  who  first  heard 
O   God  break  eternal  silence  with  a  word, 
That  stirred  the  chaos  into  form  and  flame; 
That  clove  the  day  from  night;  that  gave  a  name 
In  turn  to  every  torch-enkindled  star — 
Eldest  brother,  thou,  to  all  things  that  are ! 
Beneath  thy  ray,  revealed  in  light  and  shade, 
Water  took  wings;  the  firmament  was  made; 
And  earth,  arising  out  of  ocean,  bore 
Fruit  trees  whose  seed  lies  at  the  fruit's  deep  core. 
And  thou  and  thy  sweeter  sister,   Moon,   were 

given 

Dominion  o'er  the  burning  lamps  of  heaven, 
Which  mark  the  seasons  and  which  pull  the  tides 
And  hold  the  line  where  day  from  night  divides. 

Warmed  through,  the  great  sea  monsters  spouted 

foam; 

Fish  swam  the  seas;  the  wild  birds  built  a  home; 
The  long  procession  of  the  beasts  began; 
And  God  in  His  Own  image  created  man. 

Thy  raging  anger  through  the  cosmos  sheds 

A  benediction  on  a  billion  heads. 

Thine  is  the  hearth  at  which  creation  stands, 

[21] 


SUN 

Toasting  before  thy  fire  its  sides  and  hands. 
Thy  universal  domesticity 
Comforts  the  purring  cat,  the  apple  tree, 
The  dragon  fly  and  all  things  that  draw  life 
As  equally  as  Adam  and  his  wife. 

When  the  last  frozen  fountain  is  released, 
And  the  last  harvest  of  the  world  increased 
By  thy  beneficence;  when  last  there  dies 
Sunset  as  an  emperor  upon  the  skies; 
When  neither  feeble  nor  with  breast  grown  cold, 
Thou  perish  as  the  prophet  has  foretold — 
Washed  over  and  drowned  in  dreadful  seas  of 

blood — 

And  earth  is  drenched  with  fire  as  with  a  flood: 
If  (as  I  think  may  be)  each  man  may  take 
Some  relic  of  the  sun  .  .  .  for  her  dear  sake 
I'll  choose  that  shaft  of  light  she  used  to  wear 
On  sunny  days  amid  her  mortal  hair. 


[22] 


SUMMER  RAIN 

— who  have  tried  to  learn 

How  I  could  find 
Everywhere  marks  of  her 

Spirit  and  mind; 
How  she  is  mingled  with 
Earth,  to  the  water  kith, 
How  the  bright  sparks  of  her 

Fly  on  the  wind — 

Saw  her,  where  wet  leaves  sway 

Under  the  breeze 
Fall  with  the  faltering 

Light  through  the  trees; 
Fall  where  wild  grasses  lift 
Flowers  like  skies  adrift — 
Touching  and  altering 

All  the  eye  sees. 

Through  the  drenched  undergrowth 

Solitude  brings 
Silence's  lyrical 

Quivering  strings. 
Here  where  no  footsteps  stir 
Solitude  sings  of  her; 
[23] 


SUMMER  RAIN 

Silence — a  miracle ! — 
Sings  of  her,  sings. 

Thrilled,  in  the  distance, 

The  note  of  a  bird 
Faintly — a  lonely  sound! — 

Was  it  her  word 
Cried  in  the  rain-washed  wood? 
Deep  in  the  grass  I  stood 
Hoarding  the  only  sound 

That  my  heart  heard. 


[24] 


EARTH'S  GREEN  WAYS 

I  WANDER   in   the  earth's  green  ways,   and 
stare 

With  steady  happiness  at  all  my  finding, 
Intent  and  dumb  ...  A  heavy  crown  of  care 
Lifted  from  off  my  head.    A  chain  was  binding 
My  feet,  lest  they  should  go;  a  mist  was  blind- 
ing 
My  eyes,  lest  they  should  see  the  beauty  there — 

Cows  in  the  rushes,  and  the  river  winding, 
The  nimble  squirrel  clambering  his  stair. 

Here  will  I  linger  on  until  the  amorous 

Earth  shall  entreat  her  lover,  night,  to  keep 
His  promised  tryst.     Descending,  he  will  steep 
Her  heart  in  wonder;  and  in  moonlight  glamor- 
ous 
Lull    watchful    men    and    beasts    and    birds 

asleep — 

Till  day-dawn  glimmers  and  the  cocks  grow  clam- 
orous. 


[25] 


LEGEND 

"No  man  dare  take  of  that  fruit  for  it  is  a  thing  of  fairie." 

— MANDEVILLE'S  TRAVELS. 

I  WALKED  within  my  garden 
Under  the  sun's  strong  ray, 
When  the  turbaned  merchants  passed  me 
As  they  journeyed  to  Cathay. 

They  passed  me  with  goblin  camels 

Coal  black  and  white  as  milk, 
Carrying  bales  of  richest  spices 

And  diamonds  and  furs  and  silk; 

Carrying  blood-red  jewels 

For  the  gold  of  the  great  queen's  hair 
And  glittering  coats  of  silver 

For  the  Chan  himself  to  wear. 

The  crafty  merchants  passed  me 

With  faces  eager  and  thin 
To  the  far  and  fabulous  Indies 

Where  a  fabulous  wealth  they  win. 

They  went  through  the  lanes  of  England, 
There  in  the  strong  sunlight — 

THose  dim  and  ghostly  creatures 

Who  should  only  have  walked  by  night. 
[26] 


LEGEND 

And  I  ran  beside  the  caravan, 

As  it  journeyed  on  and  on, 
Until  we  reached  the  bounds  of  the  earth 

In  the  country  of  Prester  John. 

From  the  hill's  familiar  summit, 

Where  the  road  swerves  down  to  the  right, 
The  shining  city  of  Prester  John 

Lay  naked  to  the  sight. 

At  the  close  of  an  hour's  long  travel, 

At  the  foot  of  the  quiet  lane, 
Palaces  and  pinnacles 

Shot  upwards  from  the  plain. 

And  the  little  stream  ran  aquiver 

With  jewels  to  the  brim, 
Making  a  lordly  flood  for  the  sea 

That  shone  at  the  world's  rim. 

It  flowed  'twixt  the  trees  of  that  country, 
Ten  thousand  leagues  and  more 

From  the  spot  where  I  met  the  merchants 
Passing  my  own  oak  door. 

The  marvellous  birds  of  that  country 
In  the  leafage  on  either  hand 

07] 


LEGEND 

Sang,  while  the  river  glittered 
And  glided  to  the  sea  of  sand. 

And  the  fruit  upon  the  branches 

Hung  thick  and  ruddy  and  sweeten — 

But  because  it  was  a  thing  of  fairie 
I  dared  not  eat. 

Because  it  was  a  thing  of  fairie 

And  I  but  a  mortal  man, 
A  sudden  fear  gave  wings  to  my  feet 

And  from  that  land  I  ran. 

I  ran  from  the  country  of  Prester  John 

That  sparkled  in  the  light, 
Till  the  cool  green  hedge  of  my  garden 

Came  again  in  sight. 

I  saw  in  my  quiet  garden 

The  apples  hang  ripe  on  the  bough, 
And  the  rows  of  dear  and  friendly  flowers 

That  in  my  garden  grow. 

And  on  the  kindly  roof  of  my  house 

Was  cast  no  enchanted  thing 
Nor  any  spell,  but  only  mystery 

For  the  heart's  comforting. 

[28] 


LEGEND 

And  as  one  rose  up  to  greet  me — 

Than  the  Chan's  youngest  daughter  more 
fair — 

The  sun  released  an  arrow 

That  alighted  amidst  her  hair. 


VAGABONDAGE 

DUSTY  of  shoes  and  dented  of  hat—- 
Beggars— we  knock  on  this  door  and  that; 
Beggars  whose  bodies  are  weary  and  old 
We  whimper  for  shelter,  shut  out  in  the  cold: 
Kind  folk,  peep  through  your  windows  and  see 
The  rags  of  our  sorrowful  beggary ! 

An  ancient  madness  has  driven  us  forth 

To  East  and  West  and  South  and  North — 

Though  gold  upon  our  palms  has  lain  thick 

Of  men  and  of  cities  our  hearts  have  grown  sick, 

Of  narrow  skies  and  of  dust  and  of  din — 

Lift  up  the  latch  and  let  us  come  in  1 

Draw  back  the  bolts  and  the  stout  stiff  bars 

For  vagabonds  homeless  beneath  the  stars  1 

We  fain  would  find  a  welcome  to  sit 

Where  the  glowworm's  friendly  lantern  is  lit  .  .  . 

To  the  fellowship  of  fur  and  of  wing 

Our  sorrowful  ditty  we  sing: 

We  hear  not  a  word  that  is  spoken 

Under  the  greenwood  tree; — 
No  sound  of  that  jovial  laughter, 

That  feasting  and  revelry! 
[30] 


VAGABONDAGE 

The  great  roots  jest  together 

Deep  in  the  ruddy  earth, 
But  never  a  lonely  mortal 

Is  partner  to  that  mirth. 

For  the  secretive  hills  are  jealous 
Lest  man  should  overhear t 

And  they  guard  their  hoary  fables 
From  every  human  ear. 

Though  crickets  sing  in  the  twilight 
And  larks  ascend  in  the  morn, 

No  whisper  of  their  songs'  meaning 
Ever  comes  to  the  women-born. 

For  this  we  have  given  up  kinsfolk 

And  household  and  household  fire, 

To  find  in  the  silver  house  of  the  snail 
The  end  of  our  desire. 

But  though  men  were  scornful  and  bitter 

And  pitiless  of  face — 
O  small  folk,  are  you  more  ready 

To  give  us  a  resting  place? 


VAGABONDAGE 

Beggars  with  bellies  drawn  tightly  in 

We  seek  our  nightly  shelter  to  win; 

Yet  no  beast  lifts  a  kindly  eye 

To  welcome  such  vagabonds  passing  by. 

If  you'll  give  us  a  crust  of  your  fairy  bread 

And  a  petal  of  dew,  we'll  be  comforted — 

But  no  living  thing  will  answer  the  door 

Though  we  tramp  and  trudge  the  wide  world  o'er 


ENCHANTMENT 

BECAUSE  my  childhood  only  knew 
The  burning  sands  and  white, 
Where  cactus  and  palmyra  grew 
In  bright  and  bitter  light — 

That  day  the  English  cliffs  were  seen, 
With  meadows  cool  and  kind 

All  covered  with  the  grass  so  green, 
Comes  often  to  my  mind. 

A  little  Anglo-Indian  boy 

The  Dorset  field  I  trod, 
Beholding  buttercups  with  joy 

And  daisies  meek  like  God. 

I  found,  a  little  older  grown, 

In  Surrey  woods  of  pine 
A  stranger  thing  to  keep  and  own 

Than  that  young  zest  of  mine. 

A  wind  that  smote  me  as  I  sat, 
With  buffets  strong  and  sharp, 

When  the  wind  of  love  awoke  thereat 
To  play  my  heart  as  a  harp. 
[33] 


ENCHANTMENT 

But  yet  those  vales  are  not  so  dear, 
As  where  the  gales  are  loud 

And  skies  are  iron  and  austere 
From  Cirencester  *  to  Stroud. 

Where  little  houses  built  of  stone 
In  crowded  hamlets  stand, 

Because  they  fear  to  stand  alone 
In  that  enchanted  land. 

My  mind  with  pain  and  happiness, 

In  thinking  on  it,  fills 
Where  the  grave  silence  comes  to  bless 

The  everlasting  hills. 

1  Locally  pronounced  Cicester. 


SUNDAY  MORNING  AT  MARLOW 

LAST  night  as  I  came  up  the  lane 
Towards  the  house  that's  mine, 
I  saw  the  thin  young  moon  again 
Among  the  planets  shine. 

Between  the  trees  that  lined  my  way 

A  wintry  whisper  stirred 
I  knew  the  frost  would  wake  ere  day 

Like  some  sweet  early  bird. 

I  knew  the  fingers  of  the  mist 

Would  falter  in  their  hold 
When  once  a  glowing  sun  had  kissed 

A  world  of  glowing  cold. 

And  now  as  I  go  up  the  hills 

This  morning  after  Mass, 
I  see  how  powdered  silver  fills 

The  rolling  fields  of  grass. 

I  hear  below  me  as  I  climb 

The  hills  where  quiet  dwells 
A  music  of  recurrent  rhyme 

And  rhythm  from  the  bells. 

[35] 


SUNDAY  MORNING  AT  MARLON 

It  trembles  on  the  frosty  air 

Among  the  frosty  woods, 
Far  off,  far  off  and  silver  clear 

Among  my  solitudes. 


[36] 


HIGHWAYMAN'S  SONG 

WHILE  a  horse  is  left  in  stable; 
While  I've  pistols  and  a  sword,— 
Does  the  Sheriff  think  he's  able 
For  to  swing  me  on  a  cord? 
While  a  woman's  worth  the  winning; 

While  there's  wine  that's  fit  to  drink; 
While  there's  still  delight  in  sinning 
I'll  be  safe  enough,  I  think! 

If  at  last  the  runners  catch  me 

With  my  pockets  stuffed  with  gold — 
At  the  least  when  they  dispatch  me, 

I'll  be  saved  from  growing  old. 
All  my  doxies  will  be  crying 

As  I  mount  the  gallows-stairs — 
That's  a  good  death  to  be  dying; 

I  can  spare  the  Parson's  prayers  I 


[37] 

402648 


THE  HEAVENLY  TAVERN 

(Sung  by  the  exile  in  America) 

I  FOUND  in  the  inn  upon  the  hill 
An  ale  which  body  and  soul  can  fill, 
Ale  as  strong  as  the  drinkers  who  sit 
Drinking  and  praising  the  glory  of  it. 

I  drank  a  flagon,  I  drank  a  pot; 
I  treated  the  company,  paid  the  shot, 
And  hearty  and  happy,  a  man  content, 
I  gave  them  my  blessing  and  out  I  went. 

I've  discovered  that  inn  in  many  a  town 

With  its  score  of  good  fellows  whom  nothing 
can  drown — 

And  we've  sometimes  sat  there  till  the  morn- 
ing was  pink 

And  nothing  was  left  in  the  house  to  drink. 

Whene'er  I  walked  singing  along  the  lane 
I  found  that  mystical  inn  again. 
Whatever  the  village,  whatever  the  shire — 
The  same  jolly  topers  beside  the  same  fire  I 
[38] 


THE  HEAVENLY  TAVERN 

But  when  I  went  sailing  across  the  sea — 

Alas !  that  inn  didn't  travel  with  me ! 

I've  left  it  and  lost  it  ...  oh,  where  shall  I 

find 
Any  comfort  of  body  or  rapture  of  mind? 


[39] 


A  SONG  OF  DRUNKEN  WEATHER 

ALL  night  the  rain  came  down  amain, 
A  raging,  drunken  storm, 
But  we  sat  snug  with  fire  and  mug 

That  kept  us  safe  and  warm. 
Such  weather  hardly  can  be  mended 
When  drinking  is  the  thing  intended; 
And  such  a  night  too  soon  is  ended 
That  kept  us  safe  and  warm. 

We  left  the  inn  where  men  can  win 

A  kindness  born  of  ale, 
And  with  hearts  made  wise  and  merry  eyes 

Went  out  into  the  gale. 
With  joy  between  us  like  a  tether 
We  met  the  jolly  English  weather, 
In  which  the  sun  and  wind  together 

Go  out  to  make  a  gale. 

We  need  not  grieve  the  beer  we  leave 

Behind  us  in  the  bar; 
For  every  tree  is  drunk,  and  we 

Are  even  as  they  are. 
Though  all  must  reel  and  some  go  under, 
We're  not  so  drunk  but  we  can  wonder 
[40] 


A  SONG  OF  DRUNKEN  WEATHER 

To  hear  a  drinking  song  like  thunder 
About  us  where  we  are. 

We  do  not  shrink  to  take  our  drink, 

And  neither  do  the  hills 
Who  drank  all  night  for  their  delight 

The  flagons  heaven  fills. 
But  nights  of  rain  last  not  for  ever; 
We're  full  as  is  the  flooding  river — 
So  thank  our  God  the  great  drink  giver, 

For  all  the  pots  He  fills ! 


RAHAB 

I  ONLY  know  that  in  an  hour  I  lost 
All  worth  the  saving, 
That  life  lies  barren  as  a  land  in  frost 
With  bleak  winds  raving. 

And  though  kings  kiss  me  wildly  on  the  lips 

And  load  my  fingers. 
They  cannot  pay  me  for  my  joy's  eclipse 
Where  no  light  lingers. 

You  give  me  gold!     But  is  that  recompense, 

Sweet  lord  and  lover? 
For  that  which  I  have  given — my  innocence? 

Will  you  recover 

The  happiness  I  had — forever  gone 

Since  your  eyes  found  me — 
Walking  my  lonely  gardens  all  alone, 

My  dreams  around  me? 

But  I  may  walk  the  leafy  ways  no  more 

Of  those  dear  gardens.  .  .  . 
The  door  is  shut.    I  cannot  find  the  door.  .  . 

And  my  heart  hardens. 

Desire,  you  said,  would  be  a  steady  glow 
(Do  you  remember?) 

[42] 


RAHAB 

Kneel  down  again,  and  stretch  your  cheeks,  and 

blow 
The  failing  ember ! 

The  blaze  is  still  alive?    Let's  hope  the  fire, 

Sweet  lord  and  lover, 
Of  Hell  will  warm  us  better  than  desire 

When  life  is  over! 


f43] 


O  FELIX  CULPA! 

THEN  gazed  the  wild-wood  dumb  with  awe, 
Staring  with  eyeballs  open  wide 
On  one  grown  conscious  of  a  law 
And  lifted  suddenly  to  pride. 

The  apex  of  creation  in 

His  shame,  creation,  envious  sees — > 
Magnificently  robed  with  sin, 

Knowing  the  roots  of  mysteries. 

Hot-footed  hurrying  through  the  immense 
The  winds  their  happy  tidings  tell, 

That  man,  exchanging  innocence — 
And  gladly — for  the  fires  of  hell 

Proves  his  long-boasted  power  to  choose, 
To  leave  the  good  and  take  the  ill; 

Free,  with  his  soul  to  save  or  lose, 
By  warrant  of  its  royal  will. 

But  hidden  from  the  awestruck  eyes. 
Which  see  the  sentenced  rebels  go, 
Are  those  tall  towers  of  Paradise 
Where-through  exultant  rumours  blow; 
[44] 


O  FELIX  GULP  A! 

Where  seated  at  the  council  board 
The  Three-in-One  debate  Their  plan, 

The  Incarnation  of  the  Word, 
The  sorrows  of  the  Son  of  Man. 


[45] 


CHIVALRY 

THY  Chivalrous  love 
Picked  up  my  challenging  glove, 
Which  I,  being  young, 
Before  Thy  face  had  flung. 

Not  always  thus 
Is  fortune  given  us; 
That  our  bodies  feel 
The  stroke  of  heavenly  steel. 

Happily  cross 

Swords  with  the  Knight  of  Loss, 

And  be  overborne 

By  His  shield  of  blazoned  thorn ! 

Suppose  He  turned 

Away,  while  my  anger  burned; 

And  let  me  go, 

Not  deigning  my  overthrow  I 

But  chivalry 

Fought  and  defeated  me ; 
And  generous  God 
Smote,  healing  me  with  His  rod. 
[46] 


PART  II 


AUBADE 

HOW  shall  I  waken  love  who  sleeping  lies? 
How  call  him  to  the  windows  of  your  eyes? 
How  show  him  morning  splendid  with  surprise? 
How  shall  I  waken  love  who  sleeping  lies? 

How  shall  I  waken  love?    He  keeps  his  room 
More  strictly  than  a  dead  man  keeps  his  tomb — 
Though  song-birds  sing  in  gardens  bright  with 

bloom — ' 
How  shall  I  waken  love  who  sleeping  lies? 

How  shall  I  waken  love?    He  lay  asleep 

While  in  the  skies  the  flocks  of  starry  sheep 

The   pale    moon   shepherded.      Are   dreams   so 

deep? 
How  shall  I  waken  love  who  sleeping  lies? 

How  shall  I  waken  love?    If  he  awake 

What   lyrics    through    our    desolate   hearts    will 

break, 

Which  thirst  and  hunger  for  his  lovely  sake ! 
How  shall  I  waken  love  who  sleeping  lies? 


[49] 


THE  LOVER'S  SILENCE 

THE  lute  and  starlight  lyric — these  belong 
To  love's  novitiate  of  ardent  song, 
When  underneath  your  listening  window  stood 
A  young  man  singing  to  your  maidenhood. 

Only  to  see  your  face  against  the  glass 
He  waited  patiently  upon  the  grass; 
Only  to  see  the  gold  moon  gild  your  hair 
He  sent  his  songs  into  the  evening  air. 

But  when  to  love's  still  chamber  he  has  come, 
His  lyric  lips  with  kisses  are  made  dumb ; 
And  beauty  manifested  rests  above 
The  sweet  and  perfect  silence  of  his  love. 


[50] 


SECRETS 

O  LITTLE  world,  you  are  undone — 
Your  secrets  flower  on  bush  and  tree, 
They  glimmer  in  the  morning  sun 
And  glitter  on  the  sea ! 

From  poet  and  philosopher 

You  lock  your  treasured  secrets  up, 

Though  shining  on  your  breast  you  wear 
The  golden  buttercup. 

The  clouds  ride  on  from  deep  to  deep 
And  stars  are  in  the  windy  sky — 

But  who  can  at  their  beauty  leap 
And  seize  it  fluttering  by? 

Oh,  how  can  one  who  has  not  heard 
The  tender  love  she  speaks  to  me, 

Hear  all  the  love  that  merry  bird 
Is  singing  on  the  tree? 

Or  how  can  one  who  has  not  seen 
The  look  that  yields  her  secret  up 

See,  shining  on  the  meadows  green, 
The  golden  buttercup. 


DESIDERAVI 

LEST,  tortured  by  the  world's  strong  sin, 
Her  little  bruised  heart  should  die — 
Give  her  your  heart  to  shelter  in, 
O  earth  and  sky! 

Kneel,  sun,  to  clothe  her  round  about 
With  rays  to  keep  her  body  warm; 

And,  kind  moon,  shut  the  shadows  out 
That  work  her  harm. 

Yes,  even  shield  her  from  my  will's 

Wild  folly — hold  her  safe  and  close  1 — 

For  my  rough  hand  in  touching  spills 
Life  from  the  rose. 

But  teach  me,  too,  that  I  may  learn 
Your  passion,  classical  and  cool: 

To  me,  who  tremble  so  and  burn, 
Be  pitiful  1 


[52] 


IF  EVER  YOU  COME  TO  DIE 

IF  ever  you  come  to  die 
And  the  world  should  grow  old — 
Millions  of  years  gone  by 

Singly  as  sheep  to  their  fold — 
I  think  our  burnt  star  would  renew 

And  enkindle  to  flame, 
If  a  memory  lived  of  you 

Or  if  anyone  spoke  your  name. 

The  thin  grey  dust  of  your  urn, 

The  beauty  asleep  in  your  grave, 
Would  flower  the  fields,  and  return 

Mighty  in  wind  and  wave, 
The  cuckoo  repeat  his  call, 

The  chrysalis  burst  again, 
And  laughter  happily  fall 

Through  cities  of  buried  men. 

God  knows  whether  or  not 

More  than  a  carved  stone  shall  tell— 
Or  a  verse  in  a  book  forgot — 

Of  the  lady  I  love  so  well : 
But  I  know  that,  her  story  lost, 

The  earth  must  fade  like  a  rose, 
[53] 


IF  EVER  YOU  COME  TO  DIE 

Ruined  by  endless  frost 

And  gripped  by  pitiless  snows 
But  even  were  joy  all  gone 

As  water  from  empty  streams, 
If  a  poet  musing  alone 

Could  fashion  you  out  of  his  dreams; 
Though  you  were  only  a  bodiless  sprite 

Then,  even  then,  for  your  sake 
Would  death  grow  alive  with  delight 

And  a  lovely  world  awake. 


[54] 


DIRGE 

IF  on  a  day  it  should  befall 
That  love  must  have  her  funeral; 
And  men  weep  tears  that  love  is  dead, 
That  never  more  her  gracious  head 
Can  turn  to  meet  their  eyes  and  hold 
Their  hearts  with  chains  of  silky  gold; 
That  never  more  her  hands  can  be 
As  dear  as  was  virginity; 
That  in  her  coffin  there  is  laid 
Beauty,  the  body  of  a  maid, 
The  body  of  one  so  piteous-sweet, 
With  candles  burning  at  her  feet 
And  cowled  monks  singing  requiem.  .  .  . 

I  think  I  would  not  go  with  them, 
Her  lordly  lovers,  to  the  place 
Where  lies  that  lovely  mournful  face, 
That  curving  throat  and  marvelous  hair 
Under  the  sconces'  yellow  flare — 
How  shall  a  man  be  comforted 
When  love  is  dead,  when  love  is  dead? 

But  I  would  make  my  moan  apart, 
Keeping  my  dreams  within  my  heart — 

[55] 


DIRGE 

For  guarded  as  a  sepulchre 
Shall  be  the  house  I  built  for  her 
Of  silver  spires  and  pinnacles 
With  carillons  of  mellow  bells— 
A  house  of  song  for  her  delight 
Whose  joy  was  as  the  strong  sunlight— 
But  now  love's  ultimate  word  is  said, 
For  love  is  dead,  for  love  is  deadl 

But  even  should  all  hope  be  lost, 
Some  memory,  like  a  thin  white  ghost, 
Might  stealthily  move  in  midnight  hours 
Among  those  silent,  sacred  towers, 
And  glimmer  on  the  moonlit  lawn 
Until  the  cold  ironic  dawn 
Arises  from  her  saffron  bed — 
When  love  is  dead,  when  love  is  dead. 


REMEMBRANCE 

LET  not  the  world  remember  you, 
By  any  greater  thing  or  less, 
Than  that  upon  a  reed  I  blew 
A  song  to  praise  your  loveliness ! 

Let  not  the  world  remember  me 
(If  immortality  should  crown 

A  line  of  verse,  when  empery 

In  the  vast  waves  of  time  goes  down) 

By  any  greater  thing  or  less 

Than  one  good  song  I  made  and  sung 
To  praise  your  love  and  loveliness, 

One  evening  when  the  world  was  young! 


CONQUERORS 

CONQUEROR!     What   can   withstand  thy 
patience,  Time? 

When  granite  summits  crumble  grain  by  grain, 
And  deserts  gradually  freeze  with  rime — 
Our  gates  of  brass  are  shut  on  thee  in  vain ! 

Conqueror!  Who  can  outwit  thy  ambush,  Death? 

Thy  sword-stroke  through  the  Knight's  strong 

visor  thrust 
Shatters  the  pillar  of  life ;  none  gainsayeth 

Thy  ravenous  worms  at  work  amid  the  dust ! 

Conqueror!  greater  than  these,  victorious  Love! 

Shall  our  glad  lives  hold  aught  else  but  thy 

fire — 
Since  in  a  triumph  they  thy  chariot  drove 

With  Time  and  Death  made  captive  to  Desire  ? 


[58] 


HOLIDAY 

WHEN  every  bird  on  every  tree 
Has  sung  with  all  its  might; 
When  flowers  amid  the  meadow  grass 

Are  growing  in  the  light — 
Let  every  heart  that  leaps  at  play 

Each  butterfly  a-wing, 
Rejoice  to  see  a  holiday, 
A  holiday,  a  holiday, 
A  happy  hearted  holiday, 

Because  it  is  the  Spring! 

When  Christmas  snows  are  on  the  roof, 

And  little  children  sit, 
Eating  their  puddings  and  their  pies 

Beneath  the  candles  lit — 
Since  God  was  born  on  Christmas  day, 

Let  every  girl  and  boy, 
Ring  all  the  bells  of  holiday, 
Of  holiday,  of  holiday, 
The  jolly  bells  of  holiday, 

That  fill  the  world  with  joy. 

My  love  and  I  in  autumn  woods 
Sweet  scented  from  the  rain 
[59] 


HOLIDAY 

Once  wandered  for  a  holiday, 
A  holiday,  a  holiday, 

When  love  went  with  us  all  the  way, 

And  led  us  back  again. 
And  though  no  Christmas  snows  that  morn 

Lay  on  the  fields  so  green, 
Yet  God  within  our  hearts  was  born 

The  little  lamb  of  God  forlorn — 
Because  it  was  a  holiday, 
A  holiday,  a  holiday, 
The  holy  day  of  holiday, 

When  love  was  in  us  born. 


UNUTTERED 

SHADE  in  the  garden, 
Light  on  the  hill 
Mirror  your  nature's 
Beautiful  will. 

Silence  and  solitude 
Grow  perfect  and  pass, 

As  you  come  to  me  laughing 
Over  the  dew-wet  grass. 

But  how  shall  I  utter 

Your  loveliness, — 
When  the  wind  makes  music 

With  your  rustling  dress? 

What  song  of  my  singing 
Shall  clothe  you  about, — 

When  night  wraps  you  in  silver 
As  the  stars  come  out? 

How  shall  I  emulate 

The  nightingale, — 
Who  melts  you  with  tenderness 

In  the  moonlit  vale? 
[61] 


UNUTTERED 

Love  in  its  anguish 
Strives  and  is  dumb, 

Waiting  for  fitting 
Words  to  come; 

Climbs  in  a  spiral 

Upward  and  on 
Till  the  last  lamp  of  the  world 

Flickers  and  is  gone ; 

Till  the  last  star  is  quenched 

Below  in  the  sky; 
Till  we  stand  in  immensity,-— 

You  and  I ; 

Till  we  tread  the  ethereal 

Rapturous  ways, 
And  in  heavenly  language 

I  tell  your  praise. 


[62] 


MARRIAGE 

SEEING  what  mighty  men  are  turned  to  car- 
rion, 

I  well  may  marvel  at  the  audacious  glove 
I  flung  in  challenge,  and  at  the  ringing  clarion 
I  blew  against  the  battlements  of  love. 

What  ardours  are  they  that  should  so  embolden 
A  man,  that  he  can  go  up  with  dauntless  breath, 

To  burst  the  gates  of  life  which  though  they  be 

golden 
Are  stronger  than  the  iron  doors  of  death? 

Now,  turning  back,  I  stand  agape  with  wonder, 
Knowing  the  thing  unwittingly  I  dared — 

The  blasphemy  unanswered  by  the  thunder, 
The  Blade  in  scabbard  and  the  blade  unbared. 

For  I  have  wrenched  the  gates  and  pillaged  the 
city, 

A  ruined  heaven  amid  the  ravaged  skies, 
Only  to  find  unfathomable  pity 

Mute  and  unforgettable  within  your  eyes. 

Loudly  I  shouted  in  my  fantastic  folly, 

Threatening  Paradise  with  a  pigmy  sword — 
[63] 


MARRIAGE 

A  hearth  and  firelight,  mistletoe  and  holly 
God  gave  me  as  ironical  reward. 

Little  I  recked,  who  now  behold  with  amazement 

The  perilous  journey  that  my  soul  has  come, 
The  vengeance  heaven  has  taken  of  sweet  abase- 
ment, 

The  house  where  my  soul,  being  satisfied,  is 
dumb. 

The  love  we  seize  and  the  love  that  we  surrender, 
These  are  no  longer  separate  but  the  same — 

For  all  the  comforting  air  we  breathe  is  tender 
With   all   the   loveliness  of  Love's  matchless 
name. 


N 


DIVORCE 

(Written  in  Separation) 

OW  that  I  know  that  Chance  can  tear 

Our  lives  a  little  while  apart, 
When  I  embrace  the  empty  air. 

Who  fain  would  hold  you  to  my  heart — 

I  deeplier  know  a  deeper  thing 

Than  even  this  dividing  sea, 
That  cuts,  as  with  a  sabre-swing, 

The  single  selves  of  you  and  me. 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  divorce 

Our  separated  bodies  lie: 
Dearest,  we  are  one  flesh.    No  force, 

No  fate  our  vows  can  nullify. 

Around  us  little  lusts  decay, 

And  undevoted  pleasures  tire, 
And  satisfaction  eats  away 

The  nerve  and  sinew  of  desire. 

We  know  that  come  what  may  of  ill, 

What  shame  may  stain,  what  storm  may  shake 

Our  frail  mortality — that  still 

Our  mortal  words  shall  never  break. 
[65] 


DIVORCE 

There  is  no  ocean  strong  enough 
To  drag  our  plighted  honour  down, 

Which  carries  on  great  tides  the  love 
That  many  waters  cannot  drown. 


[66] 


FOR  M.  F.  A.  M. 

Born  March   24th,    1919. 

NOT  only  names  but  armour 
Do  I  gird  upon 
The  tiny  breast  and  shoulders 
Of  my  new-born  son. 

Michael  for  the  captain  and  leader 

Of  God's  glorious  host, 
Who  rides  to  battle  with  the  sword 

Of  the  Holy  Ghost. 

Felix  for  the  Roman  martyr 

Who  drank  of  doom, 
As  gaily  as  men  drink  of  red  wine 

In  a  supper-room. 

Antony  who  preached  to  the  fishes 

Alive  in  the  brook, 
To  whom,  while  he  read,  the  Child  Jesus 

Came  out  from  his  book. 

Not  only  names  but  armour 

Have  I  girded  on 
The  tiny  breast  and  shoulders 

Of  my  new-born  son. 
[67] 


MICHAELMAS  DAY 

(Written  for  my  little  son's  first  patronal  feast.) 

THOUGH  heavenly  anvils  forge  their  swords 
For  your  last  spiritual  campaign; 
Though  muster  the  seraphic  lords 

Against  the  mustering  hosts  profane; 

And  though  you  pass  in  long  review 

Your  spearmen  in  their  regiments, 
Marking  the  bows  as  you  pass  through, 

The  disposition  of  the  tents — 

Yet  (giving  what  the  time  allows 

From  horsemen  and  from  charioteer) 

Bend  down  your  bright  and  burning  brows; 
To  lesser  matters  lend  an  ear. 

A  silence  in  the  skies  be  made, 

A  pause  before  the  clash  of  war, 
Ere  grapple  armies  now  arrayed 

Celestial  and  secular.  .  .  . 

My  little  son — to  whom  I  gave 

Your  name,  angelic  general — 
Stand  close  beside  him,  quick  to  save, 

To  hold  his  spirit  lest  it  fall. 
[68] 


MICHAELMAS  DAY 

Your  sword  bestow  its  accolade 
Upon  his  shoulders;  may  he  wear 

Divinely  smithied  mail;  a  blade 
Of  righteous  anger  let  him  bear. 

Among  all  men  of  women  born, 
May  he  be  signed  upon  the  breast 

With  heraldry  of  blazing  scorn, 
With  honour  gleaming  at  his  crest. 

With  gentleness  and  chivalry 

Be  he  endowed;  and  may  he  keep 

Unspotted  faith  and  chastity 
Till  God  give  his  beloved  sleep. 

Then,  Michael,  bear  him  in  your  hands, 
His  stainless  sword  and  shield  and  plume; 

And  stand  beside  him  when  he  stands 
To  plead  upon  the  Day  of  Doom. 


[69] 


PART  III 


SONNETS  FROM  AN  UNFINISHED 
SEQUENCE 


IN  those  far  solitudes  where  Beauty  dwells, 
I  heard  you  faintly  ringing  like  a  chime 
O'er  twilit  waters;  and  the  distant  bells 

Accorded  with  my  heart  as  rhyme  with  rhyme. 

Then,  cried  I,  by  that  elfin  music  blest, 

"Although  I  know  not  who  or  where  you  are, 

Now  know  I  that  my  heart  shall  come  to  rest 
On  yours  at  last  beneath  a  happy  star!" 

But  night  came  down  and  I  grew  sore  afraid 
Because  the  darkness  silenced  all  the  bells; 

And  in  the  tangled  thickets  of  that  glade 
I  trod  the  labyrinths  of  seven  hells.   .  .  . 

Until  the  day-star  brought  the  carillon 

And  made  the  belfry  tremble  into  song. 

II 

When  my  heart's  door  in  answer  to  your  knocks 
Creaks  on  its  rusty  hinges,  you  will  come 

Across  the  portals,  darling  paradox, 
Who  are  to  my  awakened  life  its  sum 
[731 


SONNETS  FROM  UNFINISHED  SEQUENCE 

And  summit,  signal,  starting-mark  and  goal, 
Its  sword  and  armour,  spur  and  golden  prize — - 

A  gallant  gonfalon  unto  the  soul 

Who  learns  of  honour  from  your  humble  eyes ! 

You  are  all  beauty  in  epitome — 

Feather  from  Gabriel's  archangelic  wing! 

Laughter  and  pain,  delight  and  sanctity 

Walk  with  you,  through  your  vagrant  wander- 
ing— 

Who  carelessly  give  what  God,  ere  time  began, 

Wrote  as  His  blessing  for  one  lonely  man. 

Ill 

If  love  be  fixed  beyond  the  reach  of  Fate; 

If  Time's  compelling  summons  and  his  sway 

Extend  not  to  the  lovers  who  obey 
A  greater  lord;  if  evil  days  abate 
No  smallest  tittle  of  their  dear  estate; 

If  treason  cannot  trip  them  in  the  way; 

If  deadliest  dooms  must  make  a  vain  essay 
To  batter  down  love's  barred  and  bolted  gate — 

Then  even  of  this  hath  love  such  potency, 
That  woes  his  subjects  the  more  closely  knit 

[74] 


SONNETS  FROM  UNFINISHED  SEQUENCE 

And  strengthen  them  in  their  adversity. 

But  only  lovers  know  the  truth  of  it, 
Who,  looking  upward  through  the  deep  night,  see 

The  sky  with  all  its  blissful  tapers  lit. 

IV 

You,  whom  my  hands  have  clothed  and  crowned 

with  praise, 

Have  charged  your  poet  lover  that  he  write 
Some  word  to  tell  how  often  there  alight 

The  bitter  moods  of  your  ungracious  days 

Upon  your  gracious  heart — when  all  your  ways 
Are  set  with  snare  and  ambush;  when,  despite 
Your  published  honour,  you  yourself  unite 

To  treasonous  folly  that  your  worth  betrays. 

Thus  will  I  write  it:  generous  and  unjust, 

As  I  have  known  you,  sweet — capricious,  true 

And  fickle  in  a  breath — with  flame  and  dust 
Mingled  together — seraph,  saint  and  shrew 

In  equal  parts — brave,  palsied  with  mistrust — 
Pitiful,  cruel — such,  my  sweet,  are  you  I 

V 

No  need  has  this  deep  love  in  me  to  speak 
Of  you  with  fair  and  flattering  falsity, 
[75] 


SONNETS  FROM  UNFINISHED  SEQUENCE 

Yet  honour  lays  its  difficult  charge  on  me 
That  I  among  your  imperfections  seek 
(Please  God  and  find  it,  too !)  your  perfect,  meek 
And  ardent  soul.     This  for  an  augury 
I  held,  since  one  dim  evening  suddenly 
I  saw  your  goodness  naked  on  your  cheek. 

With  more  than  regent  Spring's  amazing  green 
The  woods,  since  then,  have  been  to  me  aflame; 

From  mystery  you  drew  away  the  screen; 
The  world  began  and  ended  when  you  came ; 

And  sworn  to  newer  fealty,  O  my  Queen, 

The    herald   winds   were    clamant   with   your 
name! 

VI 

When  our  gay  hearts  have  laid  their  glories  down; 

When  our  young  bodies  mingle  with  the  dust 

From  which  God  made  them  tender  and  august; 
When  I  my  singing  robe  and  you  your  crown 

Have  yielded  up  to  wasting  moth  and  rust; 
When  even  in  our  own  familiar  town 

Men  mind  not  our  mortality,  I  trust 
Our  lives  to  live  in  more  than  their  renown. 


SONNETS  FROM  UNFINISHED  SEQUENCE 

For  in  our  children's  children  love  shall  be 
Nobler  for  all  the  mighty  love  we  knew; 
Holier  for  pity  that  has  stirred  in  you, 

Stronger  for  patience  that  has  grown  in  me; 
In  unborn  lovers  shall  our  love  renew 

Its  mystery  and  magnanimity. 

VII 

When  beauty  doffs  its  mortal  vestiture 
Wherewith  its  lovely  spirit  was  arrayed; 

When  time  has  dissipated  light  and  lure 
From  every  golden  head  of  every  maid, 
Whose  body  with  the  loathly  worm  is  laid; 

When  these  triumphant  glories  prove  unsure 
How  shall  it  fare  with  you?     When  these  de- 
cayed 

Shall  your  weak  flesh  contrive  that  it  endure? 

Lady,  you  are  much  greater  than  all  those 

Who   used   their   beauty   in    their   power   and 

pride — 

Though  such  sad  beauty  be  to  you  denied: 
For  carried  through  the  dark  a  lantern  goes, 

And  even  now  I  see  you  glorified — 
As  you  shall  be  when  all  the  graves  unclose, 

[77] 


SONNETS  FROM  UNFINISHED  SEQUENCE 

VIII 

Beyond  the  accidents  of  time  and  sense 

Love's  dim  mysterious  godhead  strangely  lies — 
Hidden  from  all  but  faith's  illumined  eyes. 

What  ear  shall  hear  his  ringing  eloquence? 

What  probing  finger  draw  his  substance  thence? 
But  we  may  sup  the  wine  that  satisfies, 
And  smell  the  Mystic  Rose.     The  flesh  that 
dies 

May  hold  the  deathless  soul's  magnificence. 

Adulterous  race  of  Scribe  and  Pharisee, 
Shall  any  sign  be  given  you  to  prove 

The  risen  body — or  the  mystery 

That  eats  love's   flesh   and  drinks   the   blood 
thereof  ? 

Or  any  comfort  save  the  blasphemy 
Which  is  the  living  gospel  of  our  love. 


PART  IV 


ANNUNCIATION 

NOW  doth  the  chilly  earth  receive  again 
Release  from  her  long  servitude  to  pain; 
For  all  the  snows  upon  the  frozen  hills 
Melt,  and  descend  exultant  to  the  plain. 

Now  o'er  the  earth  a  dress  of  green  is  cast 
Where'er  the  feet  of  Gabriel  have  passed; 

The  woods  and  hedges  quicken  with  their  bloom 
Which  winter  had  imprisoned  and  made  fast. 

Through  every  trunk  to  every  budding  shoot 
The  sap  is  rising  into  flower  and  fruit; 

And,  prophesied  by  Sybil  and  by  seer, 
A  rod  is  growing  out  of  Jesse's  root! 

The  annunciant  angel  bends  upon  his  knee 
Before  the  virginal  maternity 

That  shall  redeem  the  world!     In  equal  joy 
The  new  leaves  burst  from  shrub  and  bush  and 
tree! 

For  loveliness  and  laughter,  these  are  hers—- 
The early  blossoms  and  the  wind  that  stirs 

Among  them  and  along  the  meadow  grass ! 
The  sun  and  moon  are  her  bright  ministers  I 

[81] 


ANNUNCIATION 

The  lark  for  happiness  that  sings  aloud, 
The  open  sky,  the  white,  soft-breasted  cloud 

Unite  to  praise  her  name,  with  all  the  stars 
That  stand  upon  the  heavens  in  a  crowd. 

Obedient  to  benignant  Law's  behest, 

The  mating  birds  build  cunningly  their  nest 

Wherein  to  welcome  soon  their  unborn  young — 
And  Mary  walks  with  God  beneath  her  breast! 

Now  nature  joins  with  her  in  wondering 
How  could  be  brought  to  be  this  marvellous  thing: 
A  child  conceived  of  her  sweet  maidenhood — 
Prime  miracle  of  this  miraculous  Spring  I 

Now  from   a   thousand  woodlands   notes   there 

throng, 

The  echoed  notes  of  her  celestial  song, 
Rehearsal  of  their  own  Magnificat; 
"For   He    hath    from    their    seats    deposed    the 
strong; 

"Broken  the  bands  of  winter  on  the  earth; 
The  humble  hath  exalted;  filled  the  dearth 

Of  hunger!"    Shall  not  all  the  world  be  glad 
With  Mary,  hearing  of  the  promised  birth? 

[82] 


ANNUNCIATION 

The  whole  creation  rises  up  to  bless 
Its  God,  in  her  amazing  sinlessness 

Crying,  "My  soul  doth  magnify  the  Lord, 
Who  looked  upon  His  handmaid's  lowliness  1" 

And  when  the  waking  spring  shall  symbolise 
Her  Spirit's  exaltation  and  surprise — 

If  our  eyes  should  be  open,  we  may  see 
The  Holy  Ghost  Who  shines  within  her  Eyes! 


[83] 


SIMPLICITY 

To  that  to  which  a  thing  cannot  attain  by  its  own  nature, 
it  must  be  directed  by  another ;  thus,  an  arrow  is  shot  by 
the  archer  towards  a  mark.  Hence,  properly  speaking,  a 
rational  creature,  capable  of  eternal  life,  is  led  towards  it,  as 
it  were,  directed  by  God. 

ST.  THOMAS  AQUINAS, 
Part  I,  Question  XXIII,  Art.  I,  of  the  Summa. 

THE  heavenly  Archer  an  arrow  shot, 
Speeding  it  straight  on  its  splendid  course, 
Till  it  hit  the  mark  of  the  centre  spot, 
And  dug  deep  in  with  eager  force. 

Thus  is  the  soul  feathered  safe  and  true, 
Unswerved  by  the  wind  nor  falling  wide, 

Obeying  the  Archer's  eye  and  thew 
And  seeking  no  other  mark  in  pride. 

But  give  the  arrow  a  mind  and  will; 

Does  it  fly  as  shot  from  the  loosened  string? 
Can  the  seasoned  bow  and  the  Archer's  skill 

Direct  the  wild  and  wayward  thing? 

If  distracted  by  complexity, 

A  hundred  targets  it  seeks  at  once, 
Is  God  at  default  in  His  archery? 

Shall  He  or  the  arrow  be  thought  the  dunce? 
[84] 


SIMPLICITY 

If  simple  and  single  the  arrow  yield 

To  the  heavenly  bow  and  heavenly  aim, 

It  shall  split  the  wand  across  the  field 
And  win  the  honours  of  the  game  1 


MEEKNESS 

UPON  the  Cross,  as  on  a  bed, 
He  lay;  and  not  a  word  He  said — 
A  lamb  as  to  the  slaughter  led. 

What  pride  can  stand  against  such  meekness? 
What  strength  can  overthrow  such  weakness? 

"Thy  will  not  mine  accomplished  be" — 
But  more  than  pain  accepted  He 
Between  the  thieves  on  Calvary. 

His  loneliness  and  dereliction 
Is  Agony's  complete  perfection. 

Then  rang  across  the  fearful  sky 
The  blasphemous  and  bitter  cry, 
Lama,  Lama  Sabacthanaif 

Darkened  the  sun ;  the  moon  was  shaken 
To  see  their  God  by  God  forsaken. 

For  never  since  the  world  began 

Had  God  forsaken  any  man — 

Till  Christ  was  laid  beneath  His  ban — 

When  by  the  Father  unbefriended 
The  stricken  Son  to  hell  descended. 
[86] 


MEEKNESS 

No  consolation  could  He  have 
Who  bore  our  sins  our  souls  to  save, 
Who  passed,  unanswered,  to  the  grave. 

What  pride  can  stand  against  such  meekness? 
What  strength  can  overthrow  such  weakness? 


[*7] 


PATIENCE 

Take  heed  and  be  quiet;  fear  not,  neither  let  thine  heart  be 
faint  .  .  .  because  Syria  hath  counselled  evil  against  thee. 
Ephraim  also,  and  the  son  of  Remaliah. 

Is.   VH,   4-5. 

LET  patience  have  her  perfect  work, 
Whose  strength  in  quietness  shall  be — 
Though  eyes  are  bandaged  lest  they  see 
Their  God  amid  the  desolate  murk. 

Though  the  abyss  should  ope  its  brink 
Yet  headlong  I  shall  never  sink — 
If  patience  hath  her  perfect  work. 

Syria  and  Israel  with  their  kings, 

Two  tails  of  smoking  firebrands,  flared; 

But  strong  in  hope  my  spirit  dared 
Accomplishment  of  hopeless  things. 

For  with  my  broken  strength  renewed 

I  do  not  fear  your  bitter  feud, 
Syria  and  Israel  and  your  kings! 

For  if  the  God  of  patience  gave 

Such  years  of  patience  unto  one 

Who  stoned  the  prophets  of  His  Son, 
And  slew  the  Son  as  a  shameful  Slave — 

How  patient  must  I  be  with  Him, 

In  all  His  dealings  strangely  dim, 
For  all  the  patience  that  He  gave ! 

[88] 


TEMPERANCE 

WHAT  judgment  and  authority 
Must  hold  the  balanced  mean, 
Hung  on  a  hair,  so  daintily, 

A  difficult  point  and  keen — 
The  weight  will  drop  beneath  the  touch 
Of  one  small  grain  of  dust  too  much! 

A  perilous  adventure  this 

To  which  our  feet  are  led, 
The  line  'yond  which  our  joy  and  bliss 

Are  snared  and  surfeited — 
Let  not  a  coward  soul  aspire 
To  gain  a  satisfied  desire. 

Yet  foolish  he  who  would  forego 

The  use,  for  fear  abuse 
Should  lure  him  to  his  overthrow — 

For  such  an  one  must  lose 
The  honour  and  the  hearty  zest, 
Attendant  always  on  the  quest. 

No  easy  thing  he  may  expect, 
No  beaten  road  and  tame, 
[89] 


TEMPERANCE 

Who  seeks  to  save  a  heaven  wrecked 

By  hell's  infernal  flame, 
When  virtue  armoured  cap-a>-pie 
Rides  out  with  Law  and  Liberty. 


[90] 


CHASTITY 

hearts  grow  old,  and  of  experience 
They  come  at  last  to  tire, 
Longing  in  vain  for  their  lost  innocence 
And  for  a  new  desire. 


Ox 


We  see  it  in  a  child's  unclouded  eyes 

As  their  most  lovely  grace, 
And  are  abashed  when  that  strange  aura  lies 

Upon  a  human  face. 

Yet  such  are  relative,  for  to  the  fruit 
Eve  stretched  her  hand  and  ate — 

In  one  alone  is  seen  the  Absolute, 
Surnamed  Immaculate. 

The  beasts,  unconscious  of  a  mystery, 

Can  freely  take  their  fill: 
But  man  is  troubled  by  virginity, 

Whose  hunger  haunts  him  still. 

O,  good  and  evil  mingled  in  that  bough 

Among  its  clustered  gold ! 
O,  sweet  and  bitter  banquet  then  as  now! 

O,  hearts  grown  grey  and  old ! 
[90 


CHASTITY 

O,  blessed  paradox  of  pain  and  loss! 

O,  Phoenix  from  the  fire ! 
O,  heavenly  ore  refined  from  human  dross  I 

O,  innocent  desire ! 


[9*] 


THE  MANICHEE 

WOULD  you  then  shatter  the  mould  of  the 
universe? 

Shake  off  the  dust 
Of  this  evil  world  from  your  feet  with  a  curse ; 

Its  laughter  and  lust 
Break  through  as  a  fetter;  and  seek  a  release 

For  your  dungeoned  soul? 
Wing  straight  to  impalpable  regions  of  peace? 

Be  at  one  with  the  whole 
Of  the  pure  and  ethereal  spirit  that  moves 

Through  time  and  the  deep? 
Know  for  treacherous  shadows  the   dreams   of 
loves 

Born  of  life's  sleep, 
Where  (paradox!)  consciousness  blindly  descends 

On  flesh  for  a  spell, 
Making  havoc  of  will,  when  the  Absolute  ends 

Our  heaven  in  hell?" 

"Can  you  tell  such  as  I  where  such  seeming  may 

be, 

Draw  the  curtain,  unfold 

The  secret  of  rapture,  point  the  pathway  for  me 
To  the  city  of  gold 

[93] 


THE  MANICHEE 

Lying  firm  on  eternity — pinnacles,  spires 

Upthrusted  in  air, 
Gates  broad  to  my  entering?" 

"Leave  your  desires ! 

Know  ugly  for  fair!  .  .  . 
Consider  the  lazar's  foul  suppurate  skin, 

His  desolate  eye — 
Is  he  less  for  his  sores?    Is  his  spirit  within 

Less  perfect  thereby? 
Let  him  scorn  his  material  ills,  nor  perplex 

The  powers  of  his  mind 
With  anguish  for  sins.     If  mortality  vex, 

Let  him  push  it  behind!" 

"What  if  in  reaching  to  God — to  Him  you  de- 
clare— 

The  soul  should  reject 
The  aids  He  has  left  us,  the  many-runged  stair 

Which  the  senses  erect — 
See  not  or  touch  not  or  hear  not  with  awe 

The  glory  bestowed 
In  the  good  of  the  earth ;  lose  by  breaking  the  law 

The  use  of  the  road?" 
[94] 


THE  MANICHEE 

"Crass  folly !    Mind  tangled  and  snared  in  the  net 

By  her  pinioned  wings 
In  a  sensual  bondage — arise  and  forget 

Earth's  loveliest  things — 
Not  as  types  to  be  taken,  as  some  will  aver, 

To  an  archetype  hid 
In  the  chaos  of  God,  where  no  movement  can  stir 

That  pure  darkness  amid. 
The  glittering  world  was  contrived  in  deceit, 

To  allure  and  betray, 

By  the  Lord  of  the  Pit — that  man's  journeying 
feet 

Might  wander  astray. 
Yet  while  bound  to  the  body,  man  freely  may  pass 

Secure  and  exempt 

From  the  woes  of  the  flesh — for  since  flesh  is  but 
grass, 

The  devils  that  tempt 
His  body  to  joy,  be  they  not  overcome 

(Let  him  strive  if  he  can!) 
No  matter ! — they  shall  not  detract  from  the  sum 

Of  the  stature  of  man! 
Hence  to  conclude,  let  him  play  if  he  will 

With  the  figment  of  flesh; 
[95] 


THE  MANICHEE 

His  scorn  for  its  wiles  brings  escape  from  the  ill 

And  its  power  to  enmesh. 

Does  he  fear  what  is  impotent,  worthless?    Mis- 
trust 

Shakes  his  soul  like  the  wind. 
But  let  him  despise  in  the  using  of  lust — 

His  body  has  sinned 
While  the  soul  is  untouched  by " 

"The  soul  is  maligned 
By  the  doctrine  you  preach — 
Which  makes  it  much  less  than  God  made  it!    O 

blind, 

Can  your  fingers  not  reach, 
To  the  marvellous  triple-fold  nature  of  man, 

Conjointed  of  soul 
And  spirit  and  body,  whose  parts  cannot  span 

The  depth  of  the  whole. 
For  soul  working  upwards  gain?  through  its  allies 

Wide  kingdoms  of  joy, 
Attained  through  the  zest  of  the  mind  and  the 

eyes 

Which  the  flesh  may  employ. 
And  flesh  touching  a  feather  or  leaf  or  a  clod, 
With  a  voice  in  its  ears 
[96] 


THE  MANICHEE 

Of  challenge,  comes  up  to  the  threshold  of  God; 

Slips  past  the  sharp  spears 
Of  the  sentinel  angels  who  cannot  withstand 

The  force  of  that  word 

(Though  it  be  but  a  man's).     For  as  in  a  green 
land 

Rings  the  song  of  a  bird, 

So  sweet  shall  man's  speech  be  in  God's  ears,  and 
climb 

To  the  roof  of  His  throne, 
Whether  uttered  by  sweat  or  by  war,  or  by  rhyme 

Or  chiselled  in  stone! 
And  if  by  man's  labour  is  worship  expressed, 

When  he  eats  or  he  drinks 
God's  will  he  fulfils,  as  in  beating  his  breast 

For  his  sins, — then  methinks 
The  world  has  its  ritual  also,  for  night 

And  the  vestmented  sun 
Perform  in  the  view  of  the  cosmos  their  rite ; 

The  fruitful  hills  run 
Abounding  with  symbols  and  signs  of  His  power, 

When  the  scattered  seed  dies, 
To  rise  in  its  spring  from  the  dead  with  the  power 

[97] 


THE  MANICHEE 

For  which  death  was  the  price. 
So  God  shall  accept  what  the  grateful  earth  brings 

As  praise  to  His  name, 
And  through  channels  of  all  the  material  things 

Blow  his  quickening  flame. 

From  out  of  the  wheat  takes  He  flesh,  from  the 
vine 

His  chalice  of  blood; 
Man's  service  confirms  He  with  oil  for  a  sign ; 

And  laves  in  the  flood 

Of  the  rivers  and  fountains  man's  primal  dark 
sin — 

Conveying  His  grace 
By  these  (you  say  evil)  means,  drawing  man  in 

To  the  peace  of  His  face. 
Beyond  such  explicit  outpourings  of  love, 

His  blessings  are  shed, 
Borne  on  the  invisible  wings  of  the  Dove, 

To  the  sweet  marriage  bed 
Of  those  who  (a  blasphemy)  learn  to  attain 

With  a  clasp  and  a  kiss ! 

Like  the  brute  and  the  bird  they  will  eat,  yet  are 
fain 

Of  the  summits  of  bliss. 
[98] 


THE  MANICHEE 

They  will  reach  what  they  seek  for  (let  this  be 
the  test!) 

By  their  senses'  desire, 
And  find  hidden  in  lips  and  the  curve  of  the  breast 

Heaven's  mystical  fire. 
So  if  his  Creator  has  thought  it  no  shame 

That  a  man  should  rejoice 

In   the   beauty   of   woman — give   praise   to   His 
name, 

Exultant  in  voice! 
One  word  ere  my  Credo  is  brought  to  a  close : 

Though  your  eyes  may  be  sealed 
To  the  loveliness  fresh  every  day  on  the  rose 

Or  the  grass  of  the  field — 
Despising  (it  may  be)  the  moon  and  each  star 

Alight  in  the  skies 

Which  you  scorn  as  impostures,  though  noble  they 
are — 

God  open  your  eyes, 
If  for  only  an  instant,  to  see  a  Child  laid 

Asleep  on  the  straw, 
While  oxen  adore  Him,  the  Son  of  the  Maid, 

And  kneel  in  their  awe; 
[99] 


THE  MANICHEE 

While  the  angels  proclaim  to  the  listening  earth 

That  God  has  been  born, 

That  the  Word  is  made  flesh.  .  .  .  Go  and  weep 
in  your  mirth, 

At  the  end  to  your  scorn ! 


[100] 


THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD 

THIS  is  the  tale  of  His  creations:  first 
When  from  the  dust  of  earth,  not  yet  ac- 
curst, 

He  fashioned  man.    Next  when  from  God  there 
burst — 

Breathed  as  a  sigh — a  singing  star,  a  soul, 
Wherewith  man  might  perceive,  desire,  control 
His  destiny,  conform  unto  the  whole 

Transcendent  purpose  of  his  place  on  earth: 
Bring  forth  his  kind  to  uncorrupted  birth, 
Touch  God  in  mystery,  and  Eve  in  mirth. 

But  when  the  plan  was  shattered  by  the  taste 
Of  sweet  revolt,  the  Image  was  defaced 
And  Eden  with  a  sword  was  made  a  waste. 

Long  aeons  through,  God  strove  by  pestilence 
And  prophecy  to  bring  to  penitence 
Him  who  had  lost  his  ancient  innocence. 

Long  aeons  through  He  failed  (though  man  was 

His, 
Marked  with  the  Godhead's  mark,  with  tears  "and 

bliss, 
Disquietude  and  arts  and  silences)  ; 

hoi] 


THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD 

Until,  reversing  His  frustrated  plan, 

He  broke  Himself  the  barriers  of  His  ban — 

Since  man  escaped  Him,  God  became  a  man. 

This  was  the  third  creation:  born  a  Child. 
The  soul  of  man  with  God  was  reconciled, 
The  soul  defiled  with  flesh  the  undefiled. 

(For  in  His  childish  wailings  were  implied 
His  human  pain  and  weariness,  the  wide 
Lent  of  temptation — and  the  Crucified.) 

Lastly  the  body  was  redeemed  when  He 
Shattered  the  gravestones  piled  immovably: 
This  mortal  put  on  immortality. 

But  we  know  nothing  of  our  past;  we  guess 
At  what  we  were ;  our  troubled  longings  bless 
Our  hearts  with  happiness  and  homesickness. 

Nor  can  our  keen  imaginations  say 

What  we  shall  be;  none  knows  the  secret  way 

Our  flesh  shall  walk  on  Resurrection  Day. 

Yet  are  we  comforted  by  mystery, 
The  promise  of  perfection — for  we  see 
Man  taken  up  into  the  Deity. 

[102] 


FALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS  NIGHT 

WILL  you  open  to  a  lost  stranger?" 
I  cried,  as  I  knocked  on  the  door. 
"Will  you  open  to  one  who  has  wandered 
Three  hours  and  more  on  the  moor?" 

No  answer  replied  to  the  darkness, 
Save  the  steady  drip  of  the  rain. 

But  I,  who  saw  light  through  the  keyhole, 
Knocked  again  .  .   .  again.  .  .  . 

Then  one  spoke  and  bade  me  enter. 

"I  know  not  the  way  I  roam." 
And  a  young  girl  spoke  to  me  gently, 

"Here  all  men  are  at  home." 

In  the  rays  of  a  single  lantern 

A  child  wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes  I  saw, 
An  old  man,  and  stalls  of  cattle 

That  bit  at  the  bundles  of  straw. 

The  girl's  eyes  gave  me  welcome 

To  that  stable  cold  and  dim. 
Her  lips  said,  "Sir,  are  you  one  who  has  come 

To  worship  Him?" 


BALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS-NIGHT 

"For  your  courtesy  I  thank  you,  lady, 

In  this  stable  cold  and  dim. 
But  what  folly  is  this?    Why  should  I  kneel 

And  worship  Him?" 

"This  is  He  Who  is  by  highest  heaven 

Eternally  adored.   .  .   . 
Unto  us  a  Child  is  given, 

Emmanuel,  Christ  the  Lord." 

I  laughed  on  hearing  her  folly; 

I  laughed  at  a  thing  absurd, 
Believing  not  the  word  that  was  spoken 

By  the  mother  of  the  Word. 

Then  though  the  night  was  bitter 

And  sleet  fell  with  the  rain — 
I  left  them  as  blasphemous  fools,  and  went 

Out  into  the  night  again.  .  .  . 

While  I  wandered  the  hills  in  the  darkness, 

Towards  the  break  of  day, 
Shepherds  cried,  "Sir,  we  seek  a  new-born  child 

And  his  mother.     Know  you  the  way?" 

I  said,  being  hungry  and  angry, 
"How  should  I  know  the  way? 
[104] 


BALLAD  OF  CHRISTMAS-NIGHT 

Many  a  woman  has  borne  a  child 
On  Christmas  Day!" 

They  only  smiled,  and  answered, 

"The  child  we  seek  is  laid 
In  a  stable,  wrapped  in  swaddling  clothes, 

And  is  the  son  of  a  maid." 

I  laughed  on  hearing  their  folly; 

I  laughed  at  a  thing  absurd, 
Believing  not  the  word  they  had  spoken 

Or  the  mother  of  the  Word. 

And  suddenly  a  multitude  of  angels 

Sang,  as  they  circled  us, 
Gloria  in  excelsis  Deo 

Et  pax  hominibus.  .  .  . 

I  led  the  way  back  for  the  shepherds 

To  that  stable  cold  and  dim, 
And  wept  as  I  said,  "Lady, 

We  have  come  to  worship  Him." 


[105] 


PART  V 


TO  THE  EASTER  DEAD  (1918) 

LET  no  lip  call  on  sorrow !    These  abide 
Immortal  this  heroic  Easter  morn 
(O  happiest,  holiest  hearts  of  women  born!) 
Who  crowned  our  England  with  a  deathless  pride, 
When  in  an  hour  ten  thousand  young  men  died 
With  simple  valour  and  with  simple  scorn; 
When  from  the  fields  of  battle,  red  and  torn 
Above  the  guns  the  voice  of  glory  cried: 

They  are  not  dead  who  rendered  up  their  breath 

In  this  tremendous  agony  of  bliss ! 
They  are  not  dead;    No  shadow  summoneth 

Their  shining  souls  to  its  obscure  abyss ! 
They  are  not  dead  whom  an  undying  death 

Hath  married  to  herself  with  such  a  kiss  I 


[109] 


TO  FRANCE 

O  MISTRESS  of  the  vine  and  song  and  dance, 
Who  knows  thee  only  in  thy  revelry, 
Knows  not  the  majesty  that  dwells  in  France — 
Guardian  of  honour  and  of  liberty! 

To  thy  great  fashioning  all  great  things  come : 
Laughter   of   Rabelais   and  the   Maid's   lance 
hand; 

The  saints  and  poets  of  our  Christendom, 
Were  melted  for  the  minting  of  thy  land. 

The  tumbrils  full  of  cargoes  of  high  kings 

Creaked  slowly  up  the  long  and  dreadful  way, 

When,  grown  as  vain  as  fools'  imaginings, 
The  world  was  burnt  as  stubble  in  a  day. 

Still  in  the  air  thy  lordly  eagle  sits, 

Who  fears  no  heat  or  light  of  any  sun; 

Did  he  not  spread  his  wings  o'er  Austerlitz, 
Where  ended  what  at  Valmy  was  begun? 

Can  one  thing  from  the  earth's  strong  story  thrive, 
While  stands  the  granite  of  the  black  Bastille — 

Or  if  that  France  that  kept  our  souls  alive, 
Be  trampled  by  the  proud  barbarian's  heel? 
[no] 


THE  PARADOX  OF  VICTORY 

(For  the  Fourth  Anniversary   of   War.) 

HOW  shall  we  live  who  look,  O  Lord, 
Upon  the  anger  of  Thy  Face? 
How  shall  we  dare  to  draw  the  sword 
Unless  Thy  Mercy  give  us  Grace? 

How  shall  we  see  Ithuriel's  spear, 

Or  Michael's  shield  ablaze  with  stars, 

Or  watch  the  hosts  go  up,  or  hear 
The  challenges  of  Thy  great  Wars? 

For  we  have  sinned,  and  kept  apart 
The  opposites  that  mix  and  run 

Together — though  within  Thy  heart 
Pity  and  wrath  are  fused  in  one  I 

The  dread  ineffable  I  AM 

To  His  confounding  conflict  goes : 

The  valour  of  the  wounded  Lamb 
The  roaring  lion  overthrows ! 

Oh,  dark  mysterious  Irony 

That  laughs  to  scorn  the  mighty  Kings, 
And  panoplies  with  victory 

The  last  and  least  of  earth's  weak  things! 
[in] 


THE  PARADOX  OF  VICTORY 

But  Thou  despite  our  weary  pride 
Didst  give  us — O  Magnanimous ! — 

A  cause  for  which  our  young  men  died 
And  brought  our  honour  back  to  us: 

To  us,  grown  sick  with  years  of  ease, 
Thy  loud  and  ringing  summons  came, 

With  passion  lovelier  than  peace, 
With  folly  nobler  than  our  fame. 

But  humble  us  that  we  may  win 
Our  glorious  goal  of  enterprise; 

Lest,  unrepentant  of  our  sin, 
We  lose  the  vision  in  our  eyes. 


[112] 


THE  LAST  CRUSADE 

BEHOLD  a  paradox !    The  crescent  moon 
Above  these  holy  hills  is  on  the  wane, 
Where   once   the   shuddering,   awe-struck   sun   at 

noon 
Hid  his  bright  face  before  a  young  man  slain ! 

Here  for  redemption  of  the  sepulchre, 

Wherein  the  murdered  Prince  of  Life  was  laid, 

Crusaders  rode  and  sang  the  name  of  her 

Who  gave  the  Word  His  body  from  a  Maid. 

Lewis  the  Saint  of  thorns  and  knotted  cord 
Here  failed,  although  his  heart  grew  clean  and 
large; 

Yet  honour  glittered  on  a  Christian  sword 
When  Richard  led  his  barons  to  the  charge. 

Now  is  attained  the  goal  of  fruitless  years; 

And  from  their  graves  the  royal  ghosts  arise, 
And  marshal  horsemen  with  invisible  spears 

And  happy  hunger  in  their  hollow  eyes. 

For  in  that  quiet  town  of  Nazareth — 

Where  heaven  was  conscious  in  a  growing  boy, 


THE  LAST  CRUSADE 

Walked  its   white   streets,   and   drew  of  human 

breath 
Ere  Golgotha  made  an  end  of  Mary's  joy — 

The  last  crusade,  on  this  heroic  day, 

The  banners  and  the  arms  of  Christendom 

Carries  to  victory,  while  the  nations  pray, 

"Thy  kingdom  come  on  earth,  Thy  kingdom 


come." 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD 

BENEATH  your  carven  cross  of  stone, 
Lie  still  within  your  house  of  clay, 
In  this  grey  city,  all  your  own.   .  .   . 

Above  amid  the  light  of  day, 
Men  trudge  their  dull  and  dusty  round, 

And  count  their  gold  and  sell  their  shame, 
While  you  in  glory  underground 
Live  with  an  unforgotten  name. 

O  ghosts  of  all  the  million  dead 

Whose  hearts  are  empty  and  forlorn 
For  women  you  can  never  wed 

And  children  never  to  be  born — 
Remember  that  your  sacrifice 

Has  brought  a  ransomed  world  to  birth, 
And  that  your  dying  was  the  price 

Of  all  the  good  that  lives  on  earth. 

Remember  that  the  soil  you  keep 
Is  English  soil,  the  soil  of  home, 

The  silent  city  of  your  sleep 

Renowned  like  Athens  or  like  Rome — • 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD 

For  we  remember  it,  and  hold 

The  sacred  graveyards  where  you  lie 

As  English  as  the  wood  and  wold 
You  loved  before  you  came  to  die ! 


[II*] 


THE  NEW  WORLD 

WITH  what  strange  markings  shall  the  world 
arise? 

Made  new  and  lovely  to  our  waiting  eyes? 
Or  stagger  forth  decrepit,  grey  and  old, 
Among  a  crowd  of  men  whose  hearts  are  cold 
With  love  of  gain  and  luxury  and  ease? 
Shall  we  adventure  on  heroic  seas 
And  find  a  new  Atlantis  in  the  main — 
Or  pass,  our  ardent  agonies  grown  vain, 
Into  a  night  of  dense  obscurity 
Oblivious  of  our  splendid  history? 

But  I  who  sing  where  the  two  roads  divide 

Of   that  dear  hope  for  which   our  young  men 

died — 

Freedom  and  honour  made  secure  on  earth — 
Behold  the  vast  titanic  pangs  of  birth 
Racking  the  body  of  the  Universe; 
And,  seeing  them,  I  know  the  apparent  curse 
Under  whose  ban  we  lie  will  pass  away; 
That  even  now  the  footsteps  of  the  day 
Thunder  along  the  immemorial  hills. 


THE  NEW  WORLD 

But,  knowing  it,  I  know  our  weary  wills 

Must  gird  themselves  again  with  might,  that  we 

May  fit  our  souls  to  drink  of  liberty. 


[118] 


PART  VI 


SIX  EPITAPHS 


For  a  Minor  Poet  who  <was  disappointed  in  love  and  died  of 

grief 

Take  up  the  carcase — all  that's  left  of  me — 
And  drown  it  in  an  undiscovered  sea, 
Or  let  the  grass  grow  rank  and  forest-high 
To  cover  up  the  lost  grave  where  I  lie. 

For  I  can  wish  no  man  to  find  a  trace 
Of  one  who  carried  gladness  on  his  face — 
But  who  was  conquered  by  the  Fates  at  last, 
And  in  a  tumult  of  derision  passed. 

After  he  gave  a  lady  all  he  knew 

Of  song,  that  his  own  true  love  might  come  true, 

She  soured  his  laughter  into  bitterness, 

And  changed  his  deep  desire  to  deep  distress. 

Yet  it  is  certain  far  beyond  denial 
That  of  the  proffered  love  she  made  fair  trial 
Ere  tossing  it  aside — Oh,  ponder  human! 
What  mould  of  man  was  this?    What  mould  of 
woman? 

[121] 


SIX  EPITAPHS 
It 

For  a  Philanthropist,  who,  after  a  long  and  useful  life, 
was  impartially  praised  even  by  the  newspapers  whick  he 
did  not  own. 

How  shall  the  paupers'  children  learn  to  sneeze,* 

How  shall  their  parents  fumigate  their  fleas, 

If  your  advising  tongue  now  silent  is 

Down  in  the  wide  Cimmerian  abyss? 

Unless,  indeed,  you've  taken  (as  we  hope) 

The  Heights  of  heaven  with  a  cry  of  SOAP ! 

And  made  the  angels  sing  to  harps  of  gold 

Canticles  nobler  than  they  hymned  of  old, 

Concerning  destitution,  lunacy, 

And  the  bad  effects  of  private  charity — 

Persuading  God  with  your  smooth  eloquence, 

That  the  present  system  of  His  Providence 

Has  grown  defective  in  its  working,  and 

Extremely  difficult  to  understand; 

And  that  it  loudly  calls  for  strict  revision 

By  some  expert  Committee  or  Commission.  .  .  . 

If  this  be  as  we  hope,  then  all  is  well 

And  King  Beelzebub  may  laugh  in  hell — 

*  See  the  dead  man's  contribution  to  the  Symposiom  en- 
titled: "Parentage  among  the  Poor,"  in  which  he  describes 
and  advocates  the  hygenic  way  of  sneezing  so  as  to  minimise 
the  risk  of  germ  infection. 

[122] 


SIX  EPITAPHS 

For  though  to  your  celestial  seat  you've  gone, 
The  social  uplift  still  can  carry  on  I 

III 

For  a  Housemaid,  who  overheard  through  a  keyhole  a  Cabinet 
Minister  at  his  devotions  in  Downing  Street,  and  who  died  of 
the  consequent  shock. 

Yours  was  the  lot  to  carry  up  the  stairs 

Towels  and  shaving  water,  boots  and  coal — 
But  not  to  pry  into  the  secret  prayers, 

The  virgin  whiteness  of  your  master's  soul. 
Leapt  with  a  dagger  murderous  surprise — 

The  shock,  the  struggle  and  the  death-stroke 

given ! — 
To  hear  those  lips  so  used  to  telling  lies 

Professing  faith  before  the  throne  of  heaven. 

IV 

For  a  noble  tree  that  was  chopped  down  and  sold  by  its  ignoble 
owner. 

You  never  feared  the  wind's  strong  charge  and 

clamour; 

Rooted  impregnably  rock-deep  you  stood — 
Till  axes  struck  your  heart  as  with  a  hammer 
Before  the  quaking  wood! 
[123] 


SIX  EPITAPHS 

O  death  magnificent!     A  sight  for  wonder! 

Cataclysmic  fell  you  as  an  Empire  falls: 
As  when  the  boastful  Greeks  destroyed  in  thunder 

Troy's  tall,  resplendent  walls ! 

Yet  shall  your  limbs  be  shaped  to  beam  and  rafter; 

Bacon  shall  hang  from  you  before  a  fire, 
Where  honest  men  may  sit  with  ale  and  laughter 

And  all  that  they  desire. 


For   my   Greatest  Enemy,   laying   upon   Kls   foul   body   and 
fouler  soul  what  I  think  they  deserve. 

Beneath  this  stone  and  this  engraven  verse 
Lies  one  I  still  would  follow  with  a  curse. 
I J  eap  upon  him  in  his  dismal  gloom, 
A  malediction  to  disturb  his  tomb: 
May  all  the  worms  that  eat  his  body  bite 
With  teeth  made  bitter  in  the  pools  of  night, 
Sharp  teeth  and  poisoned,  that  shall  tear  and  burn 
His  loins  and  liver,  heart  and  eyes  in  turn; 
May  decent  people  whiten  in  the  face 
To  hear  of  spectres  round  his  burial  place; 
And  may  the  screech-owl  chaunt  a  hideous  tune 
[124] 


SIX  EPITAPHS 

Beside  his  grave  beneath  a  blood-shot  moon; 
May  the  black  horsemen  halloo  on  their  hounds 
Till  old  men  shudder  at  the  dreadful  sounds; 
And  may  his  soul  taste  not  Lethean  springs, 
Which  with  oblivion  ease  the  happenings 
Of  those  infernal  labyrinths,  through  which 
Go  the  unlovely  and  the  proud  and  rich; 
But  may  this  ringing  curse  torment  him  there 
And  plunge  him  deep  and  deeper  in  despair  .... 
So  would  I  curse  him — but  the  truth  to  tell — 
There  is  no  man  I  like  not  passing  well. 

VI 

For  Myself,  written  in  an  hour  of  monumental  egotism. 

Here  is  a  man,  unquestionably  dead, 
Of  whom,  when  all  the  blackest  has  been  said,  >- 
(And  Lord!  what  lies  and  legends  folks  could  tell 
Of  one  whom  duns  and  devils  drove  to  hell — 
Which  is  the  reason,  lest  the  world  should  laugh, 
That  he  discreetly  writes  his  epitaph!) 
It  may  be  claimed  that  to  the  very  end 
He  kept  the  heart  of  every  splendid  friend, 
And  he  had  many;  that  he  would  not  do 
Some  things — though  he  had  vices  not  a  few; 
[125] 


SIX  EPITAPHS 

That  though  despair  closed  in  and  held  him  fast 
He  kept  his  foolish  courage  to  the  last, 
And  joy  alive  .  .  .  that  much  he  well  may  claim 
For  this  poor  fellow  who  has  borne  his  name. 


[126] 


PART  VII 


AN    INSCRIPTION   WRITTEN   WITH   A 

NEW  FOUNTAIN  PEN  USED  FOR 

THE  FIRST  TIME 

TO  what  less  worthy  uses  shall  This  Pen 
Be  driven  when  I  take  It  up  again? 
But  now  with  Its  virginity  I  write 
A  sentence  that  shall  keep  your  memory  bright. 
If  afterwards  It  lose  Its  Eden,  falling 
To  disrepute  and  infamy  appalling, 
Yet  Its  existence  hcis  been  justified 
(If  only  for  an  instant).     For  with  pride 
It  well  may  ponder  in  base  dotage :    Song 
For  one  glad  moment  did  to  me  belong 
And  I — /  swell  to  think  of  it — once  moved 
To  praise  the  lady  that  my  master  loved. 


[129] 


THE  DENIAL 

DENYING  beauty,  on  we  go  and  on 
Into  the  sandy  desert  of  the  mind 
Where  no  tree  grows,  no  fruitful  thing  or  kind. 
The  mirage  of  reality  is  gone 

The  instant  that  we  look  at  it.    We  find 
No  resting-place.  The  moon  that  last  night  shone, 
The  naked  moon  has  no  pavilion 

In  which  to  hide.    The  sun  has  made  us  blind. 

The  sun  can  cast  no  shadow  on  the  grass. 

No  moonlight  trembles  through  the   twisted 

boughs. 
All  is  as  blatant  and  as  bright  as  brass, 

A  clarity  without  perspective.     Lost!  .  .  . 
Amid  a  wilderness  without  a  house  .  .  . 

Stripped  of  the  mysteries  of  clouds  and  frost  1 


A  FISHERMAN'S  STORY 

IN  waters  deep  and  dim 
The  fishes  glance  and  glide, 
Or  by  the  lake's  green  rim 
'Neath  roots  of  rushes  hide. 

They  rise  to  snatch  a  fly; 

They  leap  into  the  air: 
The  ripples  fade  and  die 

And  are  not  anywhere. 

I  steal  my  fingers  in; 

I  touch  a  gleaming  scale, 
A  swift,  elusive  fin, 

The  flicker  of  a  tail. 

Sometimes  (more  luck  than  skill  I) 

I  bring  a  live  fish  out, 
My  happy  fingers  thrill 

With  gold-fish  or  with  trout. 

But  oh,  the  fish  I  lose! 

The  silver  scales  and  gold  I 
The  thousands  in  the  ooze 

For  every  one  I  hold  1 


BALLADE  OF  BEELZEBUB 

IT'S  not  that  you've  been  rude  to  me  a  bit — 
Indeed,  your  charming  courtesies  compel 
My  clumsy  thanks,  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

I've  dined  at  your  expense;  the  Muscatel 
Was  excellent  and  had  no  parallel. 
I  never  tasted  better  Caviare; 

But  (pardon  me  for  using  doggerel) 
But  who  the  devil  do  you  think  you  are  ? 

I  recognize  your  aphoristic  wit. 

Your  grammar's  good ;  and  you  can  even  spell. 
Infinitives  by  you  are  never  split; 

And  you  can  turn  a  sonnet  very  well. 

At  ballades,  why,  at  ballades  you  excel 
(I  wish  I  did!)  ;  I'd  have  to  travel  far 

To  find  a  smarter  literary  swell — 
But  who  the  devil  do  you  think  you  are? 

I'd  like  you  better  rising  from  the  Pit 

With  horns  and  cloven  hoofs  and  horrid  yell — 

Than  here,  where  the  electric  light  is  lit, 
And  where  a  button  somehow  rings  a  bell 
In  this  luxurious  up-to-date  hotel — 


BALLADE  OF  BEELZEBUB 

The  smoke  that's  curling  from  your  good  cigar 
Dispells     the     brimstone's     more     obnoxious 

smell — 
But  who  the  devil  do  you  think  you  are  ? 


ENVOI 

Prince  of  the  Darkness,  Lord  of  hate  and  hell, 
Who  dropped  from  heaven  blazing  like  a  star, 

You  say  you've  heard  I  have  a  soul  to  sell  .  .  . 
But  who  the  devil  do  you  think  you  arje  ? 


[133] 


BALLADE  OF  A  LOST  ROAD  * 

IT  was  in  ways  beset  with  gloom, 
Where  tangle  branches  overhead 
Of  trees  whereon  no  blossoms  bloom 
Save  those  which  are  already  dead, 
That  some  malignant  spirit  led 
My  steps  astray,  and  did  entice 

Me  down  to  where  all  hopes  are  sped — 
I  lost  the  road  to  Paradise. 

Calamitous  that  day  of  doom 

When  Eden's  apples  glistened  red, 

And  Eva  whispered  to  her  groom 
Of  what  the  lying  Serpent  said  I 
O,  sour  the  fruit  on  which  they  fed — 

Which  they  had  thought  as  sweet  as  spice  I — 
When  Eden  was  untenanted 

I  lost  the  road  to  Paradise. 

*  This  ballade  was  written,  with  a  refrain  agreed  upon  by 
us,  in  a  poetic  bout  with  Mr.  Charles  Williams.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say  that  his  was  a  much  better  ballade.  St. 
Bonaventure  and  St.  Thomas  Aquinas  were  commissioned  to 
write  an  office  for  the  newly  instituted  Feast  of  Corpus  Christi. 
When  the  two  doctors  came  to  read  their  versions  to  the 
adjudicating  commission  the  lot  fell  to  St.  Thomas  to  read  his 
version  first.  As  he  reached  each  new  part  of  the  office  St. 
Bonaventure  tore  his  own  version  up,  so  that  when  St.  Thomas 
had  reached  the  end,  all  St.  Bonaventure  had  to  show  was  a 
pile  of  pieces  that  had  been  his  manuscript. 

I  should  have  followed  his  example — but  alas,  I  am  not  a 
saint! 

[134] 


BALLADE  OF  A  LOST  ROAD 

I  sat  within  the  Upper  Room; 

'Twas  I  who  took  the  sop  of  bread; 
I  sealed  the  ineffective  tomb ; 

I  trembled  for  my  skin  and  fled; 

I  stood  and  mocked  Him  while  he  bled; 
And  for  His  coat  I  rattled  dice; 

I  tore  it  into  strip  and  shred; 
I  lost  the  road  to  Paradise. 

ENVOI 

Prince  of  the  Portals,  I  have  plead 
With  naught  of  cunning  or  device — 

My  rags  of  poor  excuse  are  shed — 
I  lost  the  road  to  Paradise. 


[135] 


BEAUTY  BENEATH  WHOSE  HAND  .  .  . 

BEAUTY,  beneath  whose  hand  we  make 
All  that  is  noble  in  our  lives, 
When  passionate  desires  awake 

And  will,  grown  energetic,  strives — 
We  hear  the  doom  and  dread  decree 
Thou  sendest  forth  to  pleasure  thee. 

Denied  and  dear  and  perilous  I 

Our  first,  our  last,  our  mightiest  love  I 

Brooking  no  rival,  tyrannous — 
As  all  thy  votaries  can  prove — 

Who,  loving  thee,  have  lived  and  died 

With  their  desire  unsatisfied. 

We  choose  thee — and  thou  sendest  pain; 

We  seek  thee — and  thou  tarriest  long; 
Thou  takest  toll  of  nerve  and  brain, 

And  tears  are  in  our  happiest  song; 
Our  hopeless  ardours  are  content 
Rewarded  by  their  punishment. 

But  they  who  fainted  in  the  quest, 

Like  those  who  bartered  thee  for  gold, 
Cry  out  from  their  unquiet  rest, 


BEAUTY  BENEATH  WHOSE  HAND  .  .  . 

"Bring  back,  bring  back  the  days  of  old 
The  days  of  rapturous  agony!" 
Be  still.     Decay.     It  may  not  be. 

From  pang  to  sharper  pang  we  go, 
With  burning  hearts  and  bleeding  feet, 

From  woeful  bliss  to  blissful  woe — 
Till  Beauty,  from  her  heavenly  seat 

Bends  down  to  heal  us,  breaks  her  rod, 

And  blinds  us  with  the  face  of  God. 


[137] 


EPILOGUE 

GREAT  joy  is  his  who  has  been  doomed  from 
birth 
To   seek   the   glittering   shadow   of   that 

beauty 

Which  God  has  cast  upon  the  minds  of  men, 
Whereof  He  is  at  once  the  object  shadowed, 
And  the  intolerable  light  that  casts 
The  semblance  of  itself  upon  the  world. 

Great  joy  is  his,  hunger  unsatisfied, 
An  exultation  o'er  the  thing  discovered, 
A  fiercer  exultation  o'er  the  thing  concealed 
From  his  adventurous  and  happy  heart. 

For  well  he  knows  that  his  felicities 
Of  form  and  colour  or  of  haunted  music 
Are  but  uncertain  shadows  of  a  shadow. 
He  chooses  rhymes  that  he  may  make  them  ring 
In  correspondence  with  the  eternal  Word, 
Like  bells  to  answer  those  celestial  belfries 
Whose  chimes  he  faintly  heard  in  faded  dreams. 
His  rhythms  are  the  faltering  counterpart 
Of  that  ineffable  beauty  that  declares 
The  orderings  of  intellectual  law, 
Self-evident,  incomprehensible. 
[138] 


EPILOGUE 

Great  joy  in  his  who  finds  in  human  love 

The  image  of  unconsummated  bliss, 

The  peace  of  God  that  passeth  understanding; 

Whoever  in  his  mortal  marriage  hungers 

To  eat  the  marriage  supper  with  the  Lamb, 

According  to  his  ardour  is  he  aware 

Of  beauty  perishable,  inviolate — 

Perishable  as  the  fleshly  husk  decays, 

Inviolate  spiritual  virginity, 

Which  shall  effect  for  body  and  for  soul 

A  pure  and  perfect  ravishment  of  desire. 

Great  joy  is  his,  forever  unsatisfied, 
His  happiness  made  sharp  by  lonely  longing, 
Until  a  blinding  beauty  burn  his  eyes 
And  cleanse  his  wild  astonished  heart  with  pas- 
sion. 


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